Good Feelings
by candysays
Summary: In Memory of John Hughes. Neither knows if they'll have more than those stolen moments, but each feels those moments are worth more than, well, diamonds. Are they as hard to break? It just keeps going and going Hard T. Really hard.
1. Chapter 1

Good feelings,  
won't you stay with me  
just a little longer . . .

AN: RIP John Hughes, your movies meant more to me than I ever knew.

****

As John Bender walked home his body buzzed a little with each step. Everything felt different.

He'd become aware of his skin, especially where she'd put her lips against his neck, all awkward, innocent, and the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, ever. Sexier than the view of her cotton panties under the desk, sexier than that stupid trick with the lipstick between her breasts, sexier even than when they'd kissed goodbye.

He stopped dead in his tracks, because he realized that suddenly not only the sexiest thing he'd ever seen but all the runners up he could think of came from what? Not from his respectable list of back-seat make-out sessions or under-the-bleachers sex or even from his father's massive porn stash from but from a virgin he'd spent a few hours insulting in detention.

Bender shook his head laughed out loud, at himself, at her, at the whole surprising day.

His hand reached up and touched the earring, the fucking _diamond_ earring, the diamond that the queen of the whole fucking school had given him, _him_. That was pretty good too. She'd taken it out of her ear, her pristine, never-been-tongued ear, and given it to him.

Either she wanted to tell him she didn't care about diamonds or tell him she cared about him enough to give him one, and for once both sides of that story sounded pretty good.

That girl, that princess girl, had taken her diamond and put it in his big, dirty hand and closed that hand and pressed hers around it, like she meant it. And then he had kissed her and she had kissed him back like she meant that too, lips opening to let his tongue meet hers after all with only a moment's hesitation, darting her own out shyly but with conviction, sliding it gently along his for the briefest touch . . .well, fuck. _That_ had been pretty sexy too.

He was in so much trouble.

He shook his head again to try to stop the spinning. Then he looked around and realized he was almost to the edge of the wide field he'd been walking through. That put him closer to home and with this awareness his mood darkened.

Claire might have been sympathetic when he told stories about his life but that didn't mean that the reality of it was something she'd want in hers. Or that he should put it there. _Worthless. _He knew what her friends would say, they'd say the same thing she'd said earlier, the same thing their parents said and his parents said.

_Worthless._ The one thing everyone from both sides of the tracks could agree on. John Bender was a worthless punk.

Bender took a deep breath as if to blow it all away, but the air in his lungs expanded his chest outward and brought back that sense of skin, it tingled where her lips had touched him, on his _body_, when he hadn't even been going to _try_ to go there with her.

That was the thing. _She_ came to _him,_ to tell him that in spite of every mean, true thing he'd said to her all day, or hell—maybe even because of them, she saw something in him that was worth something. Worth a risk. Worth touching with her mouth.

He didn't want to go home yet. He couldn't lose this sense, this good feeling that was humming and buzzing all over him. He lay right down in the grass, stretched out under the sinking sun in the cold late air and the ground pressed up against his back, through his coats and boots.

And all of it, the sun and the air and the grass and the cold said, "Yes, you _are_ here. That _did_ just happen."

It did. The one girl who could have anyone in the whole school, anyone in the same school that only pissed on him, shit on him, threatened him and locked him in a closet, had chosen _him._

She risked getting caught by that _asshole_ to come to that closet for him. _She_ came for _him._ Like_ he_ was Rapunzel, for Chrissake. Despite everything. Despite his teasing and mocking and shouting at her.

She came to the closet to kiss him because even though he'd practically shoved his face up her crotch _while she was trying to protect him_, she somehow knew he wouldn't make a move for serious.

Why he wouldn't, he didn't even know because he was sure he'd gotten her more hot and bothered than she was used to just with the eye sex and talking dirty and yelling at her. But. Then he saw her _liking_ him, _sticking up_ for him, _lying_ for him, _caring_ about what he said, and suddenly she was right, he wouldn't have touched her, like she was to good for that.

So how did she know he wouldn't? It wasn't like he hadn't done enough to her, been enough of an asshole.

Maybe she knew he believed what they said about him just a little too much and wanted him to know that she didn't. Maybe she wanted him to know that even though he'd been right about so many things, he was _wrong_ if he thought she was frigid or too pristine to touch, and that if the world thought she was too good for him and he thought so too, _she didn't._

And then that girl whose innocence he'd outed and mocked gave him an innocent, curious, sexy as hell kiss on his neck. It still burned there, just a little, as the cold March evening chilled his skin everywhere else.

It was like the world had opened just a little bit more to John Bender. He stretched out his limbs.

He had no idea what would happen on Monday but she'd given him something already, something he didn't have before. He wasn't going to tell her that, not right away. Clearly, she was the kind of girl who liked to be kept guessing just a little bit. The kind of girl too used to having everything handed to her before she even knew she wanted it.

No. Not the kind of girl. Not any kind of girl, just her. Just _a _girl. _The _girl, maybe.

What the fuck? Sounded like maybe _he_ was the girl. What was he even thinking? Not even one part of him believed that kind of bullshit. _Might be_ the_ girl_. Jesus.

So much trouble.

Bender got up, shook himself off and started walking again. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke fill deep into his lungs, calming and cooling him just a little bit on the inside with its dry heat. Cool worked with her. He needed to keep it.

All he knew, he hoped like hell she was thinking about him too.

******

Claire dove onto her bed and buried her head in the pile of pink fluffy pillows so no one could hear her in case she screamed. It seemed like she might, like something inside her might need to get out. She felt so full and so light at the same time.

She'd never felt like this before. It was like happy butterflies had taken off under her skin and were fluttering there, just beneath the surface. She'd had butterflies in the stomach before a dance or piano recital or when Blake Pitney walked by her desk in fifth grade, but these were everywhere, taking over every part of her body. Breathing was almost hard because of them, but breathing was also more exciting. Breathing made her happy.

She heard her parents arguing downstairs and _that_ made her happy for once because it meant she could keep from talking to them and keep from fake smiling or pretending not to notice and instead just keep that feeling on her lips that had been on _him. _

The tiny empty hole in her earlobe made happy. How dumb was that? It was proof it happened, proof she'd done something risky and brave and stupid, maybe more than one thing. She could have gotten into so much trouble. Probably still could. And for what?

He insulted her friends, her family, her _lunch__—_he mocked her for using sex she'd never even had and then he mocked her for that, too. She knew these things, she knew them.

He was right. She couldn't ignore him if she tried. She had tried _so hard. _

But she knew, even as she sat in there in that library and listened to him lay into her, that he was right, right about her and the way her life was and what was wrong about it. She hadn't liked that part of the day in the sense of enjoying it but somehow, by insulting her friends, her family, her _lunch__—_he showed that those things weren't _why_ he was interested in her. He was interested in _her,_ and wanted to get through the bullshit.

God, so did she.

He'd mocked her earrings. So she gave him one. She wanted to show him she could meet him halfway.

What would that even mean?

He'd clearly had a lot of girls. She felt a little miserable at the thought of his wallet and all those pictures of those sexier, more experienced girls. She didn't want to think about what he'd done with them.

What if he just wanted to "pop her cherry?" She wasn't ready for that. Even though she felt, tonight, after John Bender's mouth had been on hers and her mouth had been on John Bender, she felt readier for _something_ than she ever had before. Not that. Not yet. Not for a while. Just the thought of it made her feel tense.

But she did remember the feeling that warmed and buzzed in her body as he said those words "under the blouse, over the bra," "over the panties, no bra" and how despite everything she imagined _his _hands on _her_ in those places, and the thought of that made her breathing change and new parts of her buzz and she was positive that he could see that. Was _that _why?

Maybe _she_ was the one who just wanted _him _to . . .show her, because he could?

She shook her head. She remembered other things too. The look in his eyes as he nodded when she said she wasn't going to be like her parents. He really _heard_ her. She _knew_ he did.

The way he took it on himself without even thinking to keep her and the others safe, letting them get away while he piled on even more trouble and detention on himself. Sure, maybe part of him liked it, for sure he did. But he didn't need to do that for her. And she knew, he did it for her.

Most of all, she remembered the look on his face when she showed up at the closet where he'd been locked. He'd gotten himself locked up to help her and then climbed through the ceiling and then fallen through the ceiling and crawled back to the hole they locked him up in.

OK, so maybe it wasn't just for her. He seemed like he cared a lot about the others. Even Andy, at the end. Plus Bender was for sure not the kind of a guy who would rather stay locked in a closet than get high with a bunch of other kids. He liked taking risks for the hell of it. He liked doing the thing no one thought anyone do because it was _so_ outrageous. That was clear.

But she knew he didn't like that Principal Dick, as she would now forever think of him. Something wasn't right there, the way he talked to John, and she knew John felt that too, they all had. It's why everyone had stuck their necks out for John, too. Well, that and because he was really entertaining.

Still, she _knew_ part of why he'd done it was for her. She knew what it was like to have people do things for her, and what John had done felt like that and not like that at the same time.

People were always doing things for her. But not like that. Not real things. Not things that didn't cost money, but cost something else.

So she tried to do something for him. She walked through the hallway, too. Quietly, sure. Not to get caught. But it was a lot more rule-breaking, a lot more risk-taking, than she was used to. Sneaking through the halls to find the school delinquent so she could kiss him in the janitor's closet felt different from cutting class to go shopping. It even felt different from getting high with everyone else in the library.

It wasn't going along with what everyone else was doing, which was always easier. It was really easy if what everyone else was doing was what she wanted to do anyway. But even when what everyone else was doing was something she _didn't_ want to do, something maybe she hated, on the inside, it was still easier to go along than to do what she'd done today.

Which was doing something no one else was doing, because she wanted to.

It was surprising. It was both harder and easier than she had thought.

And the way he looked at her, when she got there? She could tell he hadn't had even one thought that she would show up there. That it would have never crossed his mind in a million years that Claire Standish, Prom Queen, would show up in the janitor's closet to see him.

She could tell for that flicker of a moment before he covered with a smartass comment, that it meant something to him that she did. She could tell it meant a lot.

_You lost? OK, _so the smartass comment made her feel weak in the knees so she had to lean back against the door. He just looked _good_ when he said those things. He knew he looked good and _that_ looked good too. She knew she would have to be careful of that look.

But the look before it, when he looked _at_ her, _in_ her, made her feel powerful. It made her feel like he wanted something that he wasn't getting anywhere else, something he maybe even hadn't known he wanted, and that she, _she, _had it.

When she kissed him he was even more surprised. He shouldn't have been. Like he said, she couldn't ignore him if she tried. He was the one who insisted that she was so pristine. Sure, she might not have done those things he talked about. It didn't mean she didn't ever want to.

With the right person.

John Bender might not be the right person. She knew that. She had no idea what would happen on Monday. What she did know, is that John Bender had made her feel a hundred different things, good and bad, that she had never felt before. He, Mr Burnout Delinquent Criminal, taught her things she hadn't known she needed to learn. Some of them she hadn't wanted to. Like about cigars and their uglier uses.

Claire shuddered. If John had been here now, she would have thrown her arms around him, tried to protect him.

At least that would make him laugh.

What had she taught him?

How to put a lipstick on with no hands. He was going to be grateful for life.

Claire squirmed on the bed. No. That wasn't how he made her feel. Not at the end. At the end she felt that whatever it was that he'd gotten from her, it was worth an awful lot.

She sighed again, came up from under the pillows. She went over to her dressing table and looked at her face in the mirrors. From all sides.

She didn't look very romantic. She still had red hair and freckles. She didn't look any different, any more daring, any more . . .sexy than she did before. Idly, Claire put her hand up to the earring that was still there and twisted it between her fingers.

Now she was going to think about something else.

Like what lipstick would make her lips look like lips a boy like John Bender would really, really want to kiss? And what outfit would say, "I'm still the same person and I'm not changing _for_ anyone but I _am_ changing, a little, because _I _want to be different?"


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you for the reviews and interest. As you can see, I'm new. Encouragement noted and much appreciated.

Vague sketch of a fantasy  
Laughing at the sunrise  
Like he's been up all night.

--Violent Femmes

Strolling back across the field, 7:10 AM on a Monday, John Bender was still feeling ok. He took a long drag on his Marlboro. A weekend free of bruises, a couple of joints, cash playing pool from some stupid uptown kid, a new level on Tempest. He'd even cracked a book. Didn't get very far with it but still, maybe there'd be another one that would take.

He figured if he did just one thing a little different, this time, reading, maybe next weekend, poker instead of pool, it would remind him that things might not be exactly the same even though his dad still smelled like beer and piss, his mom still looked tired and sullen, and they both still glared at him like he was some kind of disease.

He didn't have quite the sense of the world opening to John Bender that he'd had the last time he'd walked across this field, not after his mother's shrug when he asked about breakfast or lunch. But he didn't have the same pissed off feeling that you have when you know you have to go somewhere to get fucked over and the only thing you have going for your day is to fuck the fucker over first. Or just get fucked up.

This was definitely better. Today, John was wondering what might happen, instead of dreading the certainty of its tedium spreading over him like tar or rage that would burn through him like a cherry on a cigarette or the cold, mean glee of looking forward to watching it burn through someone else.

Cherry. Cherry on a cigarette, like on a joint, the way those big soft lips would close and purse around it, she'd lick them, closing her eyes, she'd concentrate, she'd suck the smoke into her mouth, let it pour down her throat, deep down . . .

Ok. John took a pull on the cigarette. He breathed out slowly, through his nose. All cool here, man. Nothing to see.

He thought about Brian smoking for a minute. All cool.

He was a little nervous, though, about how—_God_ no, not nervous because he was _not, _daydreaming aside, _not _that much of a girl but he was a little—and here he blew an impressively controlled stream of smoke—_unsure_ about how to play it today.

There were some things he was looking forward to seeing how they played out, he had some sense of how it would go, like when Brian came up nervously to catch his eye.

John would say something like "Hey, nerd, how's it hanging," and Brian would come up all red and pleased because John talked to him and stutter off a hi or a comment that would be unintelligible. Then Bender might turn away but then turn back and say, "Dude, catch you in shop," if he was in a good mood or, "What are we having for lunch today? Can you ask your mom for extra mayo next time?" And Brian would practically split open with a shit-eating grin and that would be cool because the kid was alright if a little spastic and maybe John would get lunch out of it. And Brian was certainly _different, _Bender _talking_ to Brian was more different than the school was ready for, and all in all, that exchange should play out amusing as hell.

John took a last drag of his cigarette, any more would be burning filter, and flicked it over the edge of the grass onto the blacktop.

If Allison and Andy were still hanging and Andy was being decent he might ask Andy if he played poker. If Andy had ditched or was being the asshole he clearly could be then John might have to fuck him up, of course, because Allison was chill but didn't have anyone else to look out for her and John sure as _hell_ knew what that felt like.

This was all cool and might play out a different way and it would be interesting to see how people reacted or didn't react and it would be different anyway and that was, on some level, all it needed to be.

But Claire. That was where things got a little less clear. Because he was pretty sure asking her to ditch and smoke pot with him all day or if or if she wanted to head out to the bleachers for a minute was not the way to go with that one. And that pretty much exhausted his ladykiller playbook. Fuck.

This would probably be easier if he weren't such an asshole.

Although really, he guessed, that had worked with her so far.

John Bender hung his head just a little bit as he remembered Claire crying at his words, as he remembered the sense of victory he'd felt at having cracked that code, having made his mark and mattered to her. But it _was_ fucked up, the way her little princess friends treated people, the way they looked at or didn't look at or looked through people. He didn't completely regret some of the shit he'd said but it still didn't make him feel good because he'd like to see a little more how it felt to make that girl fell _good._ Again, to be different.

And he wanted, he really wanted her to look at him like that, in that smiling, knowing, but still shy way, again.

As to any other things he wanted, he really needed not to think about them right now because . . .

. . . there was the school, Shermer High, looming large and prison-like right in front of him. Part of him wanted nothing more than to dive out of the way behind a dumpster and smoke a joint or seven. That would help with keeping his cool. But as part of his doing one or two things different today he wasn't going to get high before school, not even before first period Government.

He could, however, cut Government, and then it wouldn't be first period any more and _then_ he could get high.

But fuck that. Dope was fine but he wasn't about to turn into some burnout version of his father, or some creature like Skins, the dopiest pothead in the school who lived on Twinkies and Pringles and bonghits and looked at the world through tiny red eyes whose lids never even made half mast.

Hell no. He didn't need that shit and he didn't need to calm down because he wasn't nervous. Just . .. unsure how best to proceed.

Part of him wanted to go right up to her and _demand_ recognition, to go up to her and sling his arm over her and kiss her _right _ and _right in front of _ her prissy little friends and watch them all squirm. And feel her squirm up against him. Then he'd see, he'd see if it had been real or all just a fantasy he made up out of some rich girl's whim. Would she kiss back? Would she shove him away with that look that said, how did such a large cockroach find its way to _my_ shoe? Or would she stand tall for him?

But even if she did, really, that wasn't how he wanted this to go.

Deep down, he knew Claire had passed a test he never would have dreamed of putting her to and he didn't _want_ to test her again. He didn't _want _to play it with her _any _way. He wanted to take her somewhere quiet, just the two of them, and look at her a minute. Away from them. He didn't want her and him being put to any test besides, well, her and him. He just wanted to see what would happen. But he didn't need a whole world of assholes looking over his shoulder while he did.

He wanted her to look at him. Just that. That would be enough. If Claire looked at him he would go about his day. He would look back and there would be that connection and he would know it wasn't _all_ bullshit and then, well, maybe something else would happen, too.

*****

Claire turned back into the car, the door half open. "I'm not sure if I have a Prom Committee meeting tonight or not. If Stephanie is still sick then we're gonna bag it, because she's supposed to have the venue options researched."

"OK, sweetie, call if you need a ride. If mommy is busy I'll call the car service or a cab."

"Dad, I can take the bus."

Her father laughed. "Sure, sweetheart. You take the bus."

Claire felt a little sick. She'd taken the bus plenty of times. She had just been busy lately, plus someone usually gave her a ride and if not or—whatever. She hardly ever had the car service.

She rolled her eyes, more at herself than at her dad.

"_I'll survive_, Daddy. I'm not made of glass."

'Of course not, Princess. Glass is cheap. You're pure crystal."

Claire shut the door a little huffily. That wasn't true.

Of course, neither was the part about the totally fictional Prom Committee meeting or Stephanie's being sick or any of it. Claire just figured she could have some options. In case something came up.

She looked down at her jeans, flats, and sweater. The outfit was almost nondescript except that the Calvins had a faint fraying at the knee. She'd gotten them out of the bottom of her closet, having meant to throw them away. Normally she would never wear holes in her jeans.

The sweater was cashmere, but a kind of cream color, not pink. V-neck but not too low. It felt good against her skin and she hoped that someone looking at it would also think that it would feel good. Not that they could touch it.

Long chain and a pendant. Slightly darker lips than usual, but not too dark. Hair not too curled, not too set. Just a little messier than usual. Like it might have a good reason to be a little messed up.

_Pathetic._ How many hours spent thinking about what to wear, and you come up with jeans and a sweater and messy hair? Or maybe the pathetic part is the hours spent, not the result.

"It's ok. People think about my clothes. People look at my clothes. If I weren't careful I'd get the whole school talking and staring and I'll get enough of that anyway, probably." If she turned out to be a decent person and not the weak princess crystal cherry she and everyone else thought she was.

Claire felt sicker. She _didn't _think all of her friends were awful. She had _fun_ with her friends. She didn't want to have her whole life taken away. She definitely wanted to get free of some of it but she wanted to choose some parts to keep.

Still, she also liked Allison and didn't want to do anything to hurt her, at all. That was an easy decision. Allison was interesting and different and underneath, a really, really decent person. Claire would like to be that decent. Whatever happened, she was not going to be a bitch to that girl.

Claire squared her shoulders. If she was that popular, maybe if she talked to Allison, Allison would just be this month's flavor and the whole school would be eating Captain Crunch and pixie stix sandwiches.

Yeah right. Because that would clearly make Allison so happy. Because she obviously _so_ wanted to fit in and join Prom committee. Because her whole life was so clearly about conformity.

But if Claire couldn't make any of her own choices or influence anyone, what was the point, really, of being popular and ruling the school? If everyone knew how nervous she was about what they were thinking about how she dressed or who she talked to or what she did, she'd be eating with the geeks on a regular basis.

She took a beat. Like that would be so bad? Brian was really nice and a good friend. OK, true. But Claire _had_ social skills and a fashion sense, and was it so wrong to sometimes want to hang out with other people who had them?

As Claire walked up the steps, cautiously looking around, waving at a few friends but not seeing anyone really central, either from before or after, she drew a few deep breaths.

And John Bender?

Claire had decided she wasn't going to even think about that anymore, what to do or how to do it or what people would say. She had come to the conclusion that trying to predict or control anything John Bender did or said or how the world would relate to him or how he would relate to her was pointless and not just that but defeated the whole point of John Bender.

Claire walked to her locker, willing her mind to be a complete blank. A few butterflies had escaped back under her skin here or there to combat the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach but really, she just needed a break from all the stuff going on in her body.

She had no idea where he usually was or what class he had first or if he even went to class. No sign of him.

That was ok. More time to get a little more normal.

All she wanted to know, was if he was still wearing the earring. All she wanted to do,

was to see him, just lay eyes on him, and see if he was still looking at her the same way.

•••••••••

Third period and still no sign of Bender. Lunch would be next. Claire had seen Andy at what she guessed was Allison's locker and said a quick hi to them both on her way to class. If anyone noticed, no one had said anything.

She thought about asking them if they'd seen John but it made her feel weak and pathetic and nosy and so she didn't.

She was glad to see Allison still had some hair off of her face and if her eyes were darker than Claire had made them, she was wearing a cute top with her big skirt and converse. A little different, but still the same person.

Andy seemed to like her fine. Actually, Andy looked over the moon. Allison looked happy.

They got a few stares but Andy didn't even notice. He didn't have to. He was a jock. There was really something _behind_ why he fit in and how people thought about him. If he started dating a freak, he'd still be good at wrestling and he'd still win and people would still invite him to parties. There'd never been a jock outcast in the history of time.

He wasn't like Claire. Being popular wasn't all he did with his life. Being popular wasn't the only reason he was popular.

It didn't even make any sense. But there it was.

Claire stopped by Bethany at her locker. Bethany was talking to Ruth-Ann and some other girl she'd seen at parties but couldn't quite place. Bethany smiled and checked out Claire's pendant and said something disparaging about the sub in French class. Claire knew Bethany really liked French, she'd been to the South of France over the summer and now wore her hair slicked back in a pony tail like a ballerina and sometimes wore scarves.

Bethany was one of the girls Claire really liked. She made a note to have Daddy bring back French Vogue next time he was in the city. You could get foreign magazines at some of the big newspaper stands in Chicago and Bethany would be thrilled.

"Hey, did you see Andy Clark with that girl, is she new?" Ruth-Ann wanted to know as they walked to lunch.

"Who, skirts and converse?" Bethany asked, without too much interest.

"Yeah."

"I don't know. She looks familiar but I can't place her." Bethany turned to Claire. "Hey, what happened to your jeans, did you fall or something?"

Claire couldn't believe they'd been going to school with Allison since at least seventh grade and all it took was a hair band and a jock boyfriend to make her unrecognizable. But let Claire wear jeans with the tiniest hole in the world, not so much a hole as a place where a hole might be thinking about being, and it was news within thirty seconds.

"That? Nah. I just _love_ these jeans."

Claire didn't, particularly, but she figured that sounded better than anything else.

"So get a new pair just like them. It's not like you can't afford it, right?" Ruth-Ann's father was not quite as rich as Claire's, and Ruth-Ann was not quite as popular. Claire was not particularly fond of that girl, and she was not about to let her get over on her. Not over a stupid pair of Calvin Klein's.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Clearly. But it's not just _about_ the money. Once you're wearing really good jeans, each pair is a little different. Plus, if you wear them, they conform to your body, so they're, like, individualized. So they're form-fitting, and look awesome, but they're totally comfortable. So why would I give that up until I had to?" She turned to Ruth-Ann a little more fully. "I mean, I'm not _desperate._"

Bethany seemed to consider this idea pretty seriously. "You know, that's a good point. A good pair of jeans really loves your body."

Claire laughed. "Right, so you don't want to dump them too soon, right? You want to get all the loving out of them you can, right?"

Claire and Bethany started singing, "Ooh, Calvin, I need your lovin," and almost collapsed into giggles. Ruth-Ann looked a little uncomfortable but laughed right along.

Claire was not sure what she had said really qualified as teen rebellion. She hadn't said anything about Allison but no one had said anything bad, either, because no one even _knew who the hell she was _and the conversation had changed quickly.

Plus, she _had_ stood up for her jeans. Maybe that was a starting point to sticking up for her friends.

Claire felt herself blush a little at that thought and then felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She turned a little to the right and up ahead, away from her friends, and sure enough, there was John Bender, leaning up against his locker with a couple of other burnout looking kids. But John was looking right at her, face passive.

Claire felt like her knees might give out, how stupid did she look singing to her jeans in the hallway, did her friends see where she was looking? Claire wanted to crawl away into some hole and die and never come out and she was going to turn away and then Bender smiled, just a tiny, slow, corner of his lip turned up.

Claire felt herself blushing even more and she felt her face light up and she felt herself smile and look right at John Bender's eyes and for a second she could feel them burning into her, and then he nodded, just a tiny, almost invisible movement of his head, down and then up, just shaking his head back. Dead cool, dead sexy, and enough to move the hair back from his ear so she could see he had the earring on and it was the best thing that had happened to her since Saturday.

Suddenly all the butterflies were back and she thought she might float right down the hall and out of the school and she had no idea what she was doing and she had to look down. But by some superhuman effort she met his eyes again, they were still on her, and she smiled again and then flipped back her hair behind her ear, casually, so he could see, she hoped, the place on her ear where there was no earring.

And then it was over. She swore Bender was smiling a little bit more as he turned back to his friends and she turned back to her friends who were still talking about jeans and no one had noticed how she had almost floated out of the school or how she had had the most totally meaningful conversation in the middle of school hallway, all without using any words.


	3. Chapter 3

Good Feelings

It always seems like you're leaving  
Just when I need you here just a little longer

--Violent Femmes

As John Bender strode down the hallway toward the cafeteria, his hand idly flicked a lock here or there, just to set something in motion, just to feel something a little bit cold move under his touch. He was in a much better mood than he was usually when he had to make that walk, especially on days like today when he had no lunch.

Usually on those days he would cut lunch altogether, but today he had told Skins and Brodie he had something to do, couldn't make it to the bleachers for a bowl.

He didn't have anything to do. He didn't even have anything to eat. He had no reason to go to the cafeteria besides just feeling like it.

Sure, she'd be there. But he wasn't going to bother her right now. They didn't need some big dumb lunch table drama because ooh! Bender talked to the Prom Queen. He was pretty sure they were chill at the moment, if her smile said anything—_and it did_, it said than most people said in a day or week—and so right now, that was enough for him. Enough for him to call this a good day. He did _not_ want to do anything to push it. Not now. He'd made his bank and he wasn't about to bet his winnings.

But in that case John needed a little distraction, because if he spent one more minute replaying that smile in his mind and thinking about the way her blush at the sight of him went right down the V of her soft white sweater he was going to lose his fucking mind.

In need of distraction? Check. One very hopped up nerd, reporting for duty. Down the hall, Brian Johnson was doing a kind of ballet performance of casual waiting. His arms were flailing to either side, but slowly, and his hips and face would follow. "Hey, Brian!" John called out, just to see the reaction.

Brian whipped around, flustered. "Oh. Hi! You, um, yeah. I was."

John walked up and leaned against the wall across from where Brian was standing. "Exactly what I was thinking. You put that so well."

Brian was obviously pleased with the attention but turned beet red and put his hands in his pockets. He slouched one way and looked another. He defined awkward with his body and that was before he even opened his mouth. Bender liked him.

"Yeah, right. That's very funny, and . . . right. Actually, it's a funny thing, I mean, here I was, and there you are, and I was. You know, that I might see you. See, I've got this problem."

John raised his eyebrows, suggesting that Brian should continue talking until he managed to convey any information at all.

"See, my mom, it's like she's gone crazy. She's convinced, see, that I'm having this growth spurt. She's convinced I need to eat, like double. So she packed me, like, two sandwiches, and extra pudding."

John raised his eyebrows even further. "_Pudding?" _

"Yeah, I mean, talk about crazy, right? I mean, you saw my lunch, right? And you see me? I mean, it's not like I'm Andy, right? I mean, far from it." Brian laughed nervously. "So do you think you could help me out?"

"Help you with _pudding?_ It's not a challenging food, Brian," Bender's lip twisted up. He'd been right. This was all kinds or entertaining.

"I know, like what does she think I am, like, ten years old?" Brian ran a nervous hand through his hair so it all stood up straight. He kept looking expectantly at Bender.

Struggling to keep an absolutely straight face, John answered slowly, "I'm afraid that I doubt your mother will find me very convincing on the subject of your portion size, Brian, but I'll be happy to take the matter up with her when next we meet."

Brian giggled. John made a note to be a little less funny the next time. The giggling was fine, but once in a day was enough.

"No, dorkus, I meant, like, can you eat it? I mean, part of my lunch? So I don't have to waste it and stuff? I hate waste, I mean, like, Africa, you know"

"Did you just call me, 'dorkus?'"

"No. I mean, no way. I mean, I value my life, right?"

"That's what I thought." John shook his head back. He didn't want the kid to think he had to pay him to get him to eat lunch with him or something. He also didn't like feeling like a charity case. But pudding and a sandwich sounded pretty good and he hated paying his own money, money that he worked for or in this case hustled for, just because his mom couldn't be bothered to give him any food or money. It wasn't like she didn't have it. She just couldn't be bothered.

Bender's face was darkening considerably at this train of thought and Brian started trembling. "Look, man, it's cool, I mean, I could just leave it for you somewhere, you know? You wouldn't have to, like—"

Bender looked up, startled. He had forgotten for a moment that the kid was even there. He was shaking and looked like he might piss his pants. At least John had taken his weed out. But still. Good kid. He hadn't meant to scare him or hurt his feelings. Not at all.

"I tell you what, brainface, how about this. I hate the fucking sloppy Joe your neighbor's dog they're serving today. So you come, with your lunch, and you meet this kid I know, he's like, an electrical whiz. He's doing the vo-tech program for electrician. But check it out: he's failing basic math. He can't graduate without it. So we go, we sit there, we eat your mother's mania, and you tell him all about your elephant problems and he tells you about his math problems. Deal?"

"Yeah! I mean, sure. That'd be, like, copasetic."

Bender swore the kid was going to start skipping.

The cafeteria was buzzing with hostility and hormones and the smell of stale meat and tomato sauce. Bender saw to his mild disappointment that Claire was sitting at her usual table with her usual stupid friends. He didn't know what he was expecting, or why it should matter to him, but he felt his mood drop a little. She didn't turn towards him, seeming deep engrossed in some bullshit conversation, no doubt.

He wanted to come here why?

Stop.

Close eyes.

"Try not to fuck this up inside your head before you even get a chance to fuck it up in person, asshole."

Deep breath. Open eyes. Lead nerd to General Electric, AKA, Kenny Nowlin. Sit at table. Ignore bemused stares.

Bender took Brian's lunch, opened it, took out a sandwich, made a big show of examining it. He cocked his head and began speaking in his best formal style,

"Kenny, Brian here," he gestured with the sandwich, "Brian has a couple of problems. One, with too much pudding, that I'm able to assist him with myself. However, Brian also has a problem with an elephant's—ass, was it?"

Brian flushed. "Um. Sort of. I had to make this light."

Kenny was surprised at Bender's lunch company but he shrugged it off. He listened to Brian try to explain his trials with the ceramic elephant and it didn't take him long to figure out several potential sources for the failure and make a plan with Brian to go to shop after school with him in exchange for some math. Bender heard Brian explain that he really shouldn't just copy the math from someone because a) it would be really obvious that Kenny hadn't done it and b) he'd need some of it so people wouldn't rip him off when he had his own business. Kenny seemed really interested and flattered that Brian just assumed he'd have his own shop someday. And as soon as Brian was talking about math, he calmed down about his social adventure and became more normal.

Bender ate half the nerd's lunch, pudding included. The pudding was really good, he liked the smooth feel of it going down his throat and as he contemplated this he took the opportunity to scan the cafeteria again. This time he noticed Allison eating at Andy's table with some other jocks. The jocks looked to be getting up to leave, so he figured he'd head over there and check out how Allison was doing and if she was doing alright he would ask Andy about cards. He asked Brian if he wanted to take a break from schooltime at lunch for a minute but Brian actually waved him away, "In a minute, man." They were deep in some discussion of circuitry.

Amazing. But Kenny was like a stupider, poorer geek with marginally better clothes and a girlfriend. It shouldn't be a surprise they could talk.

That it was a surprise just showed how much bullshit there was to cut through.

On his way to the jock table Bender studiously did not look in Claire's direction. He'd figure out some other way of catching her eye again later. If he could figure out some way of getting within three feet of her he'd give himself a medal. He wanted to stick with his resolution not to push some kind of a choice or a scene. At least wait until they'd had a conversation before they started getting everyone to play Romeo and Juliet with them. The preps and the burnouts as the Montagues and the whoevers. Freshman English was a long time ago but that play had really bugged him.

It also bugged him that Claire was never, ever alone. Probably that's what being popular meant.

Andy had spotted him and given a nod. "Hey, Sporto," Bender began. Allison looked up, smiled and nodded like she knew exactly what was up. The other jocks at the table did double-takes almost in unison, but Andy looked up in a friendly enough way, if a little wary. The others seemed to stop in mid sentence to watch the anticipated fight unfold.

"Bender. How's it hangin'?"

"Not bad. Hey listen, I'm trying to get a poker game going this weekend. Different faces, you know? New crop of givaway facial tics. You play?"

The table of jocks breathed out audibly. This was not the conversation they'd been imagining. John Bender made no secret of hating their kind and he carried a knife. It was a little disappointing not to have the fight, but it was also a relief.

Andy nodded slowly, "Sure. I've got a match Friday and Saturday morning, but I could definitely do a little poker Saturday night."

As Bender nodded in his direction he could feel Allison staring at him. He turned.

"I play poker." She leaned into his space, making her eyes go a little narrow and pointing her chin in that way that said she was telling you something private and a little bit exciting. "I kick ass."

One of the jocks, who had been obviously trying not to react to the weird company their friend was keeping, laughed at this. Allison whirled about it. "If you doubt it, why don't you cut." She whipped a deck of cards out of her bag and started shuffling like a pro. She fanned the cards out on the table and slid them back into her hand again before offering them wordlessly to the boy, who said, "Shit."

At the exact same time, Bender said, without raising an eyebrow, simply looked at her and said, "You're in."

Andy, who had been looking on like he was watching the second coming if the second coming took the form of a goth blackjack dealer, cracked up at this. "I told you guys to watch it. My girl is not to be messed with."

Bender noted the "my girl" part, and so did Allison.

"Hey, _Sporto,_" she said, fiddling with the hem of his shirt and staring at him with a mixture of eye sex and challenge, "I'm no one's girl but mine, _remember?_"

Andy looked down, blushing. The dude was fucking blushing. "Ok, as long as I can borrow you sometimes.."

"Take me out for a spin?" Allison leaned over to kiss him. Every boy at the table groaned, Bender included. Andy caught his eyeroll and shrugged. "Well hey, where's--"

Bender cut him off with a warning look. Andy frowned, confused, while Allison stared at him, obviously trying to tell him something. Andy just as obviously wasn't getting it.

Bender felt himself tense. He did _not_ want to get into some big discussion about Claire when he hadn't even said a word to her. Not in front of these shit for brains.

Then Brian comes up and says, as if on cue, the exact thing Bender was hoping no one would say.

"Hey, guys, here we are! All we need is Claire."

Bender was getting ready to strangle the nerd when Allison spoke up, a little quickly, and studiously not looking at John. "You guys just missed her. She hung out here the first part of lunch but then she had to go deal with some wardrobe emergency from one of her friends or something."

Andy nodded, getting it. "Right. You guys were talking about lipstick. Surprisingly, I wasn't really paying that much attention."

Allison laughed. "Yeah, we were wondering if maybe we could learn to put it on with our toes. We were pretty sure," and here her eyes slightly narrowed in that intense way she had, "that I could. Claire wasn't sure she could measure up. We might get together and practice."

Without beginning to understand why this small piece of information allowed his entire body to relax, John Bender decided it felt good.

If he was going to be such a girl, maybe he should practice putting on lipstick too. With his combat boots. As soon as he was done kicking himself in the ass with them. He _had_ to stop even starting to get angry when nothing had happened and no one had done anything.

Claire was being awesome. He was being an idiot.

Lunch period was about over and the group started making their way to the door. Bender noticed they attracted more than a few pointed looks but no riots broke out. He also noticed Claire making her way toward the tray cart which prompted his sudden decision to save Brian the trip to the garbage. Brian started to protest he didn't have to, but one look at the expression on Bender's face put a stop to that.

****

Claire had no idea when John Bender had come into the lunch room. She had already decided he wasn't coming. She knew it was after she'd talked to Allison and Andy because she'd done some pretty thorough table scanning that whole time she was over there. All she knew was that she looked up after she'd gone back to her usual table, and there was John Bender's back, sitting next to what appeared to be Brian Johnson's back, on the other side of the cafeteria, far from her and with no apparent interest.

Something bad happened to Claire's breathing. She turned back to her friends who were engaged in a heated discussion about whether being in Glee Club meant you had to be able to sing, or if it just meant people were too afraid not to let you in. Claire made a few appropriate comments but she was just on autopilot. She looked down at the frayed knee of her jeans and picked it a little more frayed.

She took a deep breath. She knew he didn't like her friends. And he had said not to worry about walking down the halls together, because it was never going to happen. She shouldn't be surprised he didn't want to talk to her in the middle of lunch in front of everone.

A part of her was even grateful to him for sparing him the drama of stopping by. If an old pair of jeans caused a whole debate, God knew what a conversation with the someone like Bender would inspire. But a bigger part just wanted him to look at her in that way, smile at her, come up to her and put his arm around her waist and kiss her very hard, in front of the whole cafeteria, and be done with it.

Wow. She didn't even know where that had come from. She was pretty sure that would be awful. Except the kissing part. There was not even one small part of Claire Standish, not a spot on a fingernail, that didn't want John Bender to kiss her again.

But she'd actually prefer a little privacy for that.

When she looked up again she saw he was gone. She turned and saw him standing over by Andy and Allison, chatting. Claire was relieved and jealous at the same time. She turned to her friends, "Glee Club means you can sing—unless you're, like, really popular. Then it just means you're popular. And you might sing, but it's beside the point."

Claire had no idea what she was even saying. She was glad John couldn't didn't, either. She didn't think he'd be impressed. Even though she'd turned her back to him again, now she could swear she felt his eyes on her and it made her feel pinned, like a butterfly under glass. She felt like she couldn't move, didn't want to move while his eyes were on her. Her mouth kept moving and sound was coming out. "Seriously. Mrs Layton knows who's, you know, like us. She went here, like, with my mom, and they were kind of like us. She knows you kinda need music for some of those colleges and so she lets us do Glee Club because she knows we don't have time to be some practicing nerd. My mom told me."

Bethany nodded. Some of the other girls looked surprised. Claire didn't pay even a little attention because she had turned so could see John Bender straightening up and still looking in her direction, though not obviously staring. Claire got up too. She grabbed Bethany's tray. "Here, I'll take that. I've got some stuff from my purse I need to throw away. I don't even know how it all gets there, you know?"

Bethany smiled. "Cool. Maid service. Thanks!"

Claire laughed, looking back, which was also the same direction John Bender was in. As she explained to Bethany that her services did not come without a price and she totally accepted credit cards, she tried to catch John's eye but he was saying something to Brian, who had joined the group. Surprising.

Whatever. She could hardly blame him if he didn't figure out that she was hoping he had some trash or something. He probably didn't even have lunch. Claire felt a little sad as she made her way to the tray cart. She didn't know why she was so lame and she didn't know why she hadn't gone up to say hi to Brian and the rest of them or why she of all people was so shy. She rested the tray on the side of the trash can and slowly tossed the mostly uneaten lunch.

Suddenly she felt someone lean slightly into her and push her slightly to one side. She didn't need to turn to know who it was. A quiet, taunting voice seemed to brush against her, "Oh, excuse me, Princess," it said.

Claire still didn't turn around. "Actually, I'm pretty sure there's no excuse for you," she said quietly, but her mouth curved up a little when she said it. She still didn't turn around but she didn't move to one side either, keeping her body firmly in place so that it stayed in contact with John's, just barely returning the gentle pressure. Every single place that their bodies were touching tingled and fluttered as if all the butterflies from before had suddenly returned and raced over to that side. She was hardly aware of anything else. Except without even looking at him, she could _feel, _it was like she could _hear_ John smiling in that slow, knowing way at her response. He didn't move away either but shifted his weight slightly, not really closer or further away but just enough so that the weight of him brushed against her again, making the connection just a little bit more alive. He reached over to grab a left-over apple from the tray she was holding, bringing his mouth momentarily closer to her ear.

"You know, you're probably right about that." He bumped into her again, softly, and backed away, still without making eye contact. "Most people are smart and give up trying."

To his surprise, Claire turned and faced him. They were still pretty close together but anyone looking on might have thought she'd gotten all huffy. "You know, if you really wanted an apple, they do sell them. You didn't have to come all the way over here," she gestured toward the apple in his hand, "for that." Her words, again, sounded a little bitchy but there was a warm undercurrent to them and a note of something soft in her voice which combined with the way she glancing toward him but through her long lashes made something hitch in John's chest.

He looked right back at her, taking a beat. "You know, what I really was more in the mood for was," and he looked her briefly up and down, "a _cherry,_ but I'll take what I can get."

Claire raised her head and looked straight at him for the briefest moment. "You know, if I were you—which thank _God_ I'm not, by the way—I wouldn't take any substitutes for what I really wanted. If you want it badly enough, it might be worth waiting for." She turned and put the tray in the cart.

Bender could feel himself frozen in place by the garbage and hoped to hell no one was looking at him because if they were, it would be like he had an enormous neon sign over his head that said "Desperate for that chick right there."

Claire glanced over her shoulder and could see John still standing there turning that stupid apple in his hand, his face frozen into that shocked, hot expression like the one he'd had when she kissed him in the closet on Saturday. She bit her lip to suppress a smile, aware that it didn't quite work. She saw John draw in a breath a little suddenly. "Score one for the princess," she said to herself. She turned away and walked out the door without looking back.

John wasn't sure he'd ever be able to move again. He made a show of digging through his pockets looking for something. That girl had zinged him respectably and then called him out on something and then he was sure held out a promise to him of something undefined and indescribable and she did it while throwing away garbage, in front of everyone, without anyone seeing and he was so far gone. He was so far gone and he didn't even care, all he knew was she hadn't moved away when he'd bumped into her, she had pushed back, and pushed back in more ways than one and that challenge in her eyes was hotter than her lips and then she had bitten her lip and looked at him and he knew right then that if he didn't get his mouth on those lips by the end of the day the world was going to crumble and burn until there wasn't anything left of it but John Bender's ashes, still wanting to kiss that girl.

He snorted. I'm done. Finished. Here lies John Bender. He finally turned around to where almost everyone was gone but Andy and Allison were still standing by the door, looking at him and obviously laughing. He was with them in three strides.

"Not a word, Clark. Not a fucking word."

Andy couldn't help laughing. "I didn't say anything."

Bender snorted and looked at Allison pointedly, then back at Andy. "Yeah, like you're one to _not say anything._"

Andy nodded in embarrassment. "Point taken, man. I gotta run." He took off, leaving Allison and Bender to walk more slowly down the hall.

"Claire wants me to go lipstick shopping with her after school."

John turned to Allison in surprise. "Funny, she didn't ask me if _I _wanted to go lipstick shopping."

Allison hit him kind of hard in the arm. "She told me, she wanted something a little different. She thought I could help with that." Allison gave him that significant secrets look, but softly.

John nodded. "I can definitely see where she would think that." He snorted sarcastically. It was like he couldn't help himself. "And lipstick is obviously _so important_ when you really want to make a change."

Allison turned into her locker and then turned right at him, her eyes like daggers.

"Don't underestimate people like that, John Bender. They could surprise you."

John stared at her, nodding. "Trust me. They already have."

"Then maybe it's time to wonder what you are going to do to surprise them back."


	4. Chapter 4

AN: OK John Bender fans (and others), here is a double chapter because I'm going out of town for a few days. Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts. There's probably a couple more chapters left but I kind of need to go back to my day job a little more seriously. If it seems like there's interest, after a brief hiatus (after I finish this one) I could do an M-rated sequel. You know those kids. They grow up! :)

just a little longer . . .  
--Violent Femmes

After chem. class, Claire and Bethany and some other girls met for the obligatory 6th period bathroom break. Lipstick, mascara check, boy stories, party news. Who was in, who was out, who needed to learn a lesson. Cigarettes out the window for some of the daring ones.

Ruth-Ann had news. She'd been giggling with Margot in the halls and it looked good. Claire started. "So spill, ladies."

"OK." Ruth-Ann looked pleased to have the floor. All eyes were on her. "So. We figured out who that Andy Clark's been scamming on all day. The one we thought might be a new girl but looked like you'd seen her before?"

Claire made a show of looking carefully at her eyes in the mirror to avoid responding. _All right. This is it. How much of a bitch are you, Claire Standish?_

Everyone else was looking expectantly at Ruth-Ann.

"So check it out. That is _Allison Reynolds_."

Bethany was impressed. "Allison excuse me while I freak my 9th grade homeroom teacher out so bad she has to get a shrink Reynolds?"

Margot nodded. "Yep. Allison so freaky the bag ladies run from me downtown Reynolds."

All the girls were laughing now. Claire was putting on lipstick.

Ruth-Ann flipped her hair. "So we're trying to think, what is frickin Andy Clark thinking? He could have, like, so many normal girls."

Claire turned around. "Like you, right?"

Ruth-Ann snorted. "Not any more. He probably has, like, diseases now. Because he's clearly with her because she puts out much faster. Girls like that do it because they're desperate for attention, they think it'll make boys like them."

Margot chimed in. "Yeah. Because putting out for dudes always like, gets them to respect girls _so much._ Especially the getting pregnant part. Or giving them the clap."

"Or even just lice."

"Eew. Do you think you can get lice, like, _down there?_"

Gathering her books, Claire made to leave. She could feel her face getting hot. Maybe she could get out of this by just not joining in and she could practice being more brave later. Why couldn't she just tell them off? Was she totally a failure at decency?

But Ruth-Ann wasn't having any of it. "So, Claire, would _you _let Clark near you after bagging that freakazoid?"

She couldn't _stand_ that Ruth-Ann girl.

"Like I'd let Clark near me anyway. I think wrestling is weird."

_Great. You're winning prizes for bravery now. Instead of sticking up for your one friend, you're insulting the other._Claire imagined Bender staring at her with that look of disgust he had like when he talked about her house and her friends and her lunch. She could picture all of them staring at her the way they had when she said she thought they'd all go back to normal on Monday. And here she was doing it.

She took a deep breath. "I don't know. It's pretty lame if you ask me. I mean, how could you not recognize Allison? I mean, she went to parties and stuff in seventh grade. And we see her _every day._"

Ruth-Ann looked at Claire in disbelief. She snorted. "Not if I can help it. I might turn into stone." The whole bathroom laughed. Ruth-Ann sensed the advantage and went on. "And anyway, she went to, like two dances when were in middle school and that means we should be, like, best friends now because she has no social skills and doesn't wash her hair?"

Claire shrugged. "I don't know. She looks ok to me. Maybe she wants to make a change."

Ruth-Ann rolled her eyes. "Oh my God! I'm _so sorry! _I didn't realize she was _your_ new best friend. But you might want to talk to her about, you know, trying to change so much just so some boy will like you. I mean, I would _never_ change my look like that just to try to get some dude to stick around after he bagged me."

Bethany laughed. "I don't know. You might if you looked like _that."_ Bethany put her hair over her eyes and slunk back into a big hunched slouch and tried to peer through her bangs.

Claire caught herself smiling. It wasn't like Allison _hadn't_ looked kind of like that. It wasn't like she'd been trying to fit in. It's not like she could be surprised if people noticed and thought it was weird.

"Ok, dudettes. Whatever. She looks cute. Better looking hallways. Jock is happy. Wins match. Where's your school spirit?" Claire stood poised by the door, looking back and waiting.

Bethany laughed. "Right. Allison Reynolds in a headband. It's like . . . cleaning up garbage from the halls."

Claire felt sick. And Bethany was her _best friend. _"Are we done here? I've gotta book."

As soon as they were gone, a pair of converse appeared under one of the stall doors. The door swung open. Allison walked up to the sinks and turned on the water. She peered at herself in the mirror. Her eyes looked a little red and were smudged at the edges with running mascara. She wet a paper towel and blotted off the black. She kept looking at herself for a few moments, then left.

As soon as she got out of the girls' room, Claire ditched her friends, lying, saying she left her homework in her locker. Bethany offered to wait but Claire told her not to be late. They didn't have the same class anyway. As soon as she was gone, Claire grabbed a notebook and a pencil and started scribbling a note.

"I don't know what you have last period so I didn't know where 2 find you. I have 2 stay after for a few 2 talk 2 a club advisor but I still want 2 go. Meet me Nelson's Drugs 20 min. after the bell, or if that's not chill leave me a note in my locker, no. 2417. Later! C."

She fastwalked to where she thought she remembered having seen Allison at some point, not like she'd been paying much attention. Sure enough, there was a locker rimmed in black marker with the words WATCH YOUR BACK carefully penned in block letters.

"I'm thinking that one," Claire thought, half smiling to herself.

Claire folded the note carefully in quarters and wrote Allison on the top. She dotted the i with a little circle and made the circle into a flower. She shoved it through the slots and turned the lock sideways and backwards in what was the school signal for "open with care." She hoped Allison would know to look. She didn't know if she was "in" enough to know the note signal. Claire turned and ran, already late for class. She didn't see Allison behind her, peering from behind a doorway.

****

John Bender had gone to every class that day. He did his chem homework during algebra and turned it in the next period. He just couldn't be bothered to get in trouble that day, he had to figure out some way of seeing that girl or at least talking to her for a minute when they weren't in front of the entire school not to mention entire school's garbage.

At the bell he made straight for that chick Allison's locker, barely pausing for a few high fives. On the way he saw Carl getting ready to push his broom and gave him a "What's up, man?" but he didn't stop to bullshit like he would have liked. He had to find Allison because weird as she was, she was at least a chick and she was going to see Claire and she _had _to have more of a clue than he did.

Allison was at her locker gazing at a piece of notebook paper. She turned it over in her hand. John saw her smile, and then start shoving books and papers randomly into her bag, clutching the piece of paper under her arm. Her hair was still out of her eyes and her lips were all shiny.

John leaned against the locker next to her. He looked her sideways.

Allison threw the rest of her books into her bag and threw it over her shoulder. "So." She said. "Poker."

Bender nodded but didn't speak. He kept looking at her, his stare gaining a little in intensity.

Allison grabbed the paper from under her arm and held it in her hand, meeting John's stare for a minute. Then she crooked a smile.

"All right. I've gotta take off. It's been real." Allison turned as if to go, stifling a laugh.

"Allison!" John didn't move but his voice sounded frustrated and a little threatening and a little pleading.

She looked back at him with an exaggerated question on her face.

John kept his eyes on her but could feel his face heating up. He looked down. "C'mon," he mumbled, not meeting her eyes.

Allison sighed and shifted her bag. She held up the paper in her hand but just out of his reach. "C'mon, what?"

"Oh _Fuck_ me. Gimme a break!"

He looked up at Allison. He saw the same steady stare, now with raised eyebrows. Slight smile. Not a flinch.

John rolled his eyes and hammered the locker lightly with his fist."_Please._"

Allison's smile broke large. She let the paper fall to the floor, her eyes staying on John. "Oops. I dropped that piece of paper I found in my locker. Oh, well. If you had any _school spirit,_ you might pick up that _garbage in the halls._"

She turned and walked away. Halfway down the hall, she turned back for a second look. John Bender hadn't moved. He was still staring at the paper on the ground. Allison rolled her eyes.

Someone walked by and a rush of air brushed the paper a few feet into the center of the corridor, right in the flow of traffic. Slamming himself up from the locker, Bender made for it, his large frame reaching it in a single move and catching its edge roughly in his hands. He glanced at it, then crumpled it into a ball and shoved it in his pocket. He walked quickly down the hall, passing Allison on his way.

"Thanks," he muttered, without so much as turning in her direction.

******

Claire had dropped off some student survey ideas for the Prom committee with Mrs Levinson. Mrs Levinson was the committee advisor, and she was going to type them up and distribute them to the student body. Fifties' theme or contemporary? Cabana style décor or new wave?

It was time to ask the really important questions.

Claire lingered a little, paying extra careful attention to a discussion of the survey format until Mrs Levinson smiled over her glasses, saying, "Claire, dear, you're so thorough. It's really such a pleasure to work with you."

Claire blushed, which she figured was becoming, like, her new hobby, and turned to go. "Well, you know. I just want everything to go smoothly."

Actually, she couldn't care less.

She left the school ten minutes into the early activity period and the halls were almost deserted. On the school steps she noticed with a relief she couldn't place that it was colder out than it had been this morning. She put up the hood on her jacket, something she probably hadn't done since she was twelve, and headed off in the direction of Nelson's.

Claire saw Allison just inside the door and picked up her pace. In the door, she unzipped and shook her hood off, shaking her hair out in the process. "Oh my God, when did it get so cold?" she demanded, of no one in particular.

"I kind of like it," Allison confessed, and then with a self-conscious smirk, "more clothes to hide in, I guess."

The girls smiled at each other for a moment in silence. Claire felt shy. But, remembering that she was the one who was Miss Social Skills 1985, she spoke first.

"Well, it didn't look like you were hiding today. At least not from Andy."

Allison looked down and scuffed her foot against a newspaper rack.

Claire put out her hand and touched Allison's sleeve gently. "Hey. You look awesome. Not like you looked so awful before or anything," she added quickly, "but you look really pretty with your hair back. You have beautiful eyes."

Allison looked up. "People were talking, huh?"

"Well, duh. What else do they do? But do you care?"

"Do you think Andy cares? I mean, that people talk about seeing him with me?"

Claire laughed in surprise. Allison seemed really perceptive but that answer was totally obvious. "Um, Allison, did you _notice _who was with you every single free second of his day and who didn't leave your side or stop looking at you like he was some kind of baby puppy even in front of all his jock friends?"

Now it was Allison who blushed. "I just don't want him to be embarrassed."

Claire patted Allison's parka again. "Trust me. If he could see himself, he'd have plenty of reason to be embarrassed, but it wouldn't be because of you. I think my grandma would say "gobsmacked."

Allison wrinkled her nose. "That's a funny word."

"Well, it's a funny thing. C'mon. Let's get crazy with the lipstick."

*****

Claire showed Allison how to blend the testers on the back of her hand and her fingertips to give a sense of what the color would look like on. Then, if there was one that looked like a serious possibility, you could wipe off the tip really thoroughly and try some on your lips, but if you did that too many times, you wouldn't get a good sense of what the color was like because your lips would be stained no matter what you did. For the same reason, work from light to darker shades.

"You know, I had no idea there was so much to this," Allison said, looking critically at a deep red on her hand.

Claire nodded, laughing. "It's a real commitment." She paused, looking at the back of her hand. She groaned in frustration. "God, there I go _again. _Did I not tell you I wanted to get something different? But look at my hand! It's all pinks and neutrals. It's like I read something in a magazine once that said that's what redheads should wear and it became, like, my internal law or something." She shook her head. "I so suck at being different."

Allison gestured at the red on her own hand, looking questioningly toward Claire.

Claire smirked and shook her head. "No. I want to look different, not _awful._ Redheads really can't go near red. You, though, you could wear any shade of red you wanted. You've got that beautiful Snow White coloring."

"Maybe that's why little birds are always following me around whistling whenever I try to do any work," said Allison with a completely straight face.

Claire's lips were firmly pursed, causing to her snort loudly out of her nose. This in turn set off such loud giggles from both girls that the owner of the store came around the corner of the aisle to see if there was trouble.

"We're good. We're sorry. Don't worry. I'm totally buying stuff. You know I'm good for it." The old man rolled his eyes and nodded.

Claire straightened her face and looked at Allison with a great deal of concern. "How are you going to tell Andy about the dwarfs?"

Allison looked at Claire in mock horror, and both girls dissolved in silent laughter. Still shaking, Allison darted down to a different display center and came back with a new tube. She opened it to reveal a deep black and looked the question to Claire.

"Um, I want to look different, not _dead._"

Allison shrugged. "Dead's a look. Trust me." She thought a moment. "Listen. That thing you said. About red and redheads and whatever. I may not do lipstick like this but I do paint. So if I think of you as a painting, I think I might do your lips in," she paused to study Claire with a serious, appraising look. She turned to the tester rack and grabbed a selection of deeper and lighter shades of purple, "one of these."

Claire stared. "_Purple? Me?_"

"It depends on how different you want to be. If you want to feel really different, you can call it purple. If you want to ease into it, you can think of it as '_lavender_.'"

Claire thought a minute. "You're right. Lavender sounds much more likely."

She laughed at herself. "So maybe I'll get them all and work my way through them. See, Allison, the thing is, if I do something different, everyone notices it right away. And it's like, a discussion. Like today, I wore these jeans that are a tiny bit older and more worn than what I usually would wear. And like, we practically had to have a formal debate. You have no idea."

Allison considered. "I don't know, you said people were talking about me today, because I looked different."

Claire was growing more self-conscious but decided that she was going to be as honest as she possibly, possibly could. She spoke carefully.

"Well, that's true. They were. But that's partly because you were with Andy, and that, frankly, was _really_ different. And people already pay attention to him because he's a star jock and _was_ you know, single. And partly, you looked, you know, _a lot_ different, because you were wearing a cute little top and your hair out of your eyes, and a different style of make up—and really, because you looked _happy__—_anyway, people didn't even, honestly, know who you were at first."

Allison was very quiet. "Huh."

Claire could hardly look at her. "Really. And that was really stupid, because we've been going to the same school for, like, ever, even if we weren't hanging out." She took a deep breath. "Listen, Allison, some of those people, who are my friends and stuff, they might be some of the ones who would say really bitchy things. I know that. But, like, they _are_ my friends. I can't just drop them because they do or say dumb stuff or like, I don't like how they think. I mean, it would be a different kind of bitchy to drop them just because I suddenly decide I think they're messed up when I never said anything before. I don't know. Do you know what I mean?"

"Huh. I didn't really think about it like that before, but I don't really have friends. "

Claire said very, very seriously. "Yes you do. I am totally your friend. I mean, I want to be. I mean, I'm letting you in on all my lipstick shopping secrets. Ruth-Ann Daniels might kill for this information."

Allison snorted. "She'll never get it out of me."

"I know. You can really stand up to the pressure. But also, I don't think you would just drop me because I did a dumb thing, or even a lot of dumb things, right? Because I'm _trying,_ right? I mean, obviously, we're different. You might actually wear the black lipstick."

Allison nodded. "It could come to that."

Claire took a deep breath. "So we're different and think different stuff but you wouldn't drop me, just because I did a bad thing, or wasn't, you know, as strong or as decent as you? But just know, if people are saying stuff, I'm not one of them. I just, I mean, I have to start with lavender, you know?"

Allison spoke deadly evenly. "I don't expect you to be my champion or my knight in shining armor, if that's what you mean. And honestly, just because I wear a headband doesn't mean I care what all your bitchy friends think."

Claire could feel the sting of this remark but she could feel the hurt behind it more. She spoke quietly and seriously, too. "I know. I don't care what _all _of them think, either. I mean, some of them are my friends _really_. They have their really good points. Some of them I'm friends with just because being friends with them is so much better than being enemies."

Allison nodded. "I get it. I really do get that. And no, I wouldn't just _drop_ you. I might _tell_ you what I think. Like right now. Right now, I really think you should consider," she paused, taking a deep breath, "new lip _gloss, _too."

Claire breathed a sigh of relief at a return to a lighter topic. Allison was really, really cool.

****

As the girls left the store, small bags in hand, they each took a minute to adjust. They looked around, then at each other, and smiled in a secret way. Allison did a double take, then gestured with her head across the street.

A lone figure in a long coat stood leaning against a wall. The coat was open and he was slouched into it. A scarf hung around his neck. His eyes were focused on the ground as he brought a cigarette to his lips. Claire's stomach did fifty back flips and then froze, like every other part of her body seemed to do on cue. Then it all started humming.

She would have thought about getting a grip but she couldn't even come up with pronouns.

Allison led her gently from the door and steered her gently across the crosswalk. Claire was busy reminding herself to breath. Everything in the world seemed to take on just a little more edge. She was aware of Allison's reminding nudge and kept walking, hand clutching tightly to her bag.

John Bender was across the street. She was going to meet him. There was no one else around. John Bender's eyes were on her every step of the way. She could feel them burning into her hear, burning across her chest, and when she lifted her eyes to meet his she saw white and then black and she had to turn away so she didn't stop in the middle of the street.

The girls stopped in front of him and Claire looked at him again. His dark eyes were staring at her and his mouth had that knowing, slightly arrogant smile as he watched her look at him and Claire had to remind herself that they were still in the world, on a street, near stores.

"So," she said, her gaze still fixed on him, "What are you doing? Honing your loitering skills?"

John fixed her with a look and said in a knowing tone, "Waiting," with a tone of, "are you dense?" as if it should be perfectly obvious. Which it was.

Claire knew her lips curved up and knew she bit them, tasting the new slick of lip gloss, and knew that he had said the absolute perfect thing and knew that he could see in her face that he had.

He could see that. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. It was almost imperceptible. "Score one for the burnout," he thought. He could get good at this.

"So," said John, taking a last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into the gutter, "new color palette?"

Claire laughed. She couldn't help herself. The words "color palette" coming out of John Bender's mouth broke some kind of universal law. She straightened her expression as best she could and nodded, seriously. "And gloss."

"Gloss," John repeated, seeming to consider but making it clear that he found this absurd.

Allison nodded emphatically. "Flavored gloss," she added.

John turned to her, having completely forgotten Allison was even on the same planet with them. "Flavored?" he said, obviously with sharper interest.

Claire nodded and touched her lip slightly with her tongue and then bit where she had touched and then rubbed gently where she had bitten with the side of her finger, drawing John's attention firmly back to her face. The word "flavored" bounced softly around the image of her lips he'd been carrying in his mind since he'd seen her at lunch and collided with the reality in front of him, the reality of her tongue and teeth and hand on her mouth and he didn't really understand anything that was happening around him. He felt his breath in his chest and was idly surprised there was room for it. He hoped no one could see how hard it was. To breathe.

"A variety of flavors," explained Allison . "Both of us. We might trade off."

John couldn't move his eyes off Claire. He managed a slow nod. He was pretty sure Claire had licked her lips and thought about him at the same time. He thought it was pretty lucky he was already leaning against the wall.

Claire felt her skin burning and felt John Bender's stare from the bottoms of her feet to the roots of her hair and worked hard not to lick her lips again. She could hear the sound of his breath and that its rhythm was changing and getting a little faster. He was looking at her like she had imagined and hoped for and it didn't leave room inside her for anything else. She had to look down again.

Allison looked at them and rolled her eyes. "Well, you know, my elephants are totally overgrown into my steamships so I'll be off now."

"See you," said John and Claire, almost in unison.

Allison walked off, her whole body shaking with laughter.

John's eyes moved down from Claire's lips to her sweater. Claire edged a little closer to him without even meaning to and raised her eyes to meet his again. She let one corner of her lip turn up and noticed how the way his hair hung down over his dark eyes as they met hers and darted down her body and then met hers again made her feel parts of her body she never even knew existed.

"Did Allison just say something about elephants?" Claire wanted to know.

"I have absolutely no fucking idea," nodded John.

His eyes not leaving her face, he reached a hand out and touched the bottom of her sweater, running it softly between his fingers. It was incredibly soft. He left his hand there, not touching Claire, just her sweater, just barely.

"Jesus. What is this _made_ of?"

Claire looked at him steadily, forcing herself to keep a straight face.

"It's called cashmere."

John nodded. "Coincidence it has the word cash in it?"

"Maybe not." She smiled shyly but shook her head a little, dislodging his hand. "Most people like it, though."

Putting his hand back on the sweater, this time stroking it gently up and down with the back of his knuckle, he allowed his hand to put a little pressure through the sweater, and then let it drop. He looked where his knuckle had been and up at Claire again. "Did I say I didn't like it?"

Claire nodded her head slowly up and down and said, "no."

John chuckled and shook his head. Claire had broken the tension enough that he could move a little more freely. He bumped her slightly with his large frame, and then turned down the street. "It's cold. Let's walk."

From looking at the ground, Claire had noticed four or five cigarette butts around where John had been standing. Even chain smoking, that meant he'd been there a while. She turned her hood up for the second time that day. It _was_ a little cold, after all.

They walked down the street, neither really speaking, neither really able to speak. John didn't take her hand but he let his brush up against hers every few steps, just barely, and Claire found this took up her entire consciousness. She would wait for it to happen and then it would happen and his skin would be next to hers and then it would be over and she would be waiting again. John was desperate to find some way, somewhere to get alone with this girl, this was an improvement but they were still in the middle of the fucking street.

They came to an alcove of a storefront that had been closed for renovations. Bingo. Muttering, "let's get out of the wind a minute," John grabbed her sleeve and pulled her gently off the street, guiding her firmly into a corner more fully sheltered from the street and wind.

Now he did take her hand. He flashed to the last time their hands had touched, when she'd been putting that earring in his hand and closing her own hands around it. This time, with her other hand, she reached up and pushed the hair back from his ear. He slowly rubbed the side of her hand with her thumb.

"So. What flavor lip gloss did you choose, cherry?" His touch on her hand was very sweet but his voice still had that taunting sound. It still made her a little dizzy.

She looked John dead in the eye. "I guess that's for me to know and you—to find out."

The challenge in her eye completely undid him for the second time but he was going to go slow if it killed him. He brought his mouth down close to hers, and then on it, gently. His lips brushed hers, sliding against the slick surface, then with a little more preasure. Then his tongue, gently. He couldn't believe what he tasted.

He drew back and saw her open her eyes to look at him, half shy, half knowing. Cherries. She tasted like cherries. She had bought a goddamn lip gloss flavored like the name he'd given her to make fun of her and turned it into an invitation just for him. He had no fucking idea what to say.

Now it was Claire who let her fingers fiddle with his scarf. "Well? Do you have a guess?" He had that look again, his eyes were wide, like he was getting something he didn't know to ask for. Like when she first walked into that janitor's closet. Everything she had imagined or worried about all day long seemed like nothing compared to that.

John managed to get words out, but his voice was trembling. "I don't like to guess. I like to be sure."

Claire shrugged. "Well," she pretended to hesitate, "we do have a tutoring service for the impaired—" but John Bender's mouth cut her off. She knew to make it easier for him by joking but he could feel her trembling under his touch. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire life as he wanted his mouth on hers at that moment. He put his hand on her waist and his mouth on her lips just like he'd been thinking about all day and he felt his lips slide on hers again, the gloss making them soft and slick and then it was just sliding, cherries, soft pressure, sliding and returning. His lips were buzzing. He took her bottom lip in his mouth a little ways and she groaned, just slightly.

John drew breath harder at the groan and edged his hand around her back, over the sweater but under the coat. He put his other hand gently by her chin, pulling her further toward him. Claire felt him open his mouth a little more and then felt him run his tongue along her lips, back and forth, gentle, like a massage, pulling her mouth into his with the hand caressing her jaw and neck. A little shyly, Claire opened her mouth. John moaned slightly at this and relaxed more into the kiss and Claire could feel the vibration from the moan on her mouth. She loved that, and relaxed a little. She let John's tongue into her mouth and she pushed back a little with her own. And that. Was amazing. And then it was lips and tongue and she was grabbing onto his scarf pulling him a little closer so she could feel the weight of his body on hers. He wrapped his arm all the way around her.

Her sweater felt amazing and he wanted to put his hand under it and feel it and her skin but he didn't. She let him into her mouth and he made her moan and she was learning how to kiss. On him. With cherries. And that thought made him moan and then she met his tongue with hers, rubbing it all along. He wanted to put his hands all over her then, and make her moan more, but he was not going to. He was not going to push. She had gotten cherry lip gloss and trusted him and no one, no one had, no one who had so much reason not to. He broke the kiss and took her face in his hands and kissed her on her eyes. Then he put his lips right by her ear and murmered softly, "Claire Standish, I have been thinking about you all fucking day."

That was definitely the first time he had ever said anything even remotely like that to anyone and he thought the world might swallow him whole.

To his shock, although he didn't know what kind of response he was expecting, because he wasn't expecting anything because that would mean he had _planned_ to say something like that instead of keeping his cool, to his shock, she put her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. She was hugging him and pressing up against him everywhere. Then she let go and kissed his neck like she had the first time.

She took his hand and stroked it gently with her manicured, pink-tipped fingures. She turned those challenging eyes up on him and smiled. "I knew you couldn't ignore me if you tried," she said.

Bender laughed out loud. He was sure he had never felt better in his entire life.

She pulled him out toward the street. "I have to go. I've got mondo trig homework. Walk me to the bus?"

"Bus?' asked Bender, in a big show of shock, "Oh, is there a special princess bus service I should know about?"

Claire shook her head. "Nope. Regular city bus. My parents will have me fumigated when I get home."

"They allow busses into your neighborhood?"

"Well, just a few blocks out. That's why I want to be home before dark."

Bender nodded and took her hand, putting it in his pocket with his. He reached up and put her hood over her head. "It's getting cold."

Claire wanted to hug him.

They walked on until they reached the bus stop, which Bender cursed because the bus was just down the street. He released her hand and ran his own through his hair. This was the hard part. He wanted more time. He didn't have anywhere to take a girl like this. Claire stood next to him, staring straight ahead. As the bus pulled up, she said, not looking at him and sounding mildly annoyed, "I can't sleep at night because of thinking about you so much." She shook her head regretfully. "Now it'll probably be even worse. You should really be more considerate of others."

John stared at her in disbelief. "You _bitch_. Now you _know_ how bad I want to kiss you again and you're _leaving!"_

Claire laughed and got on the bus, turning on the second step. "See you tomorrow, John Bender," and she gave a little wave.

John made a big show of half-waving and looking at her in mock fury. As the bus pulled away, though, he just looked. That girl had his number in an amazing fucking way.

Alone again he slumped against the bus shelter and hit his head back into it. He had totally forgotten to ask for _her_ number and had no idea how to get to see her tomorrow. He really needed to take her somewhere that wasn't the cafeteria garbage. He really needed to know about the other lipgloss flavors. He'd better win at poker this weekend. He didn't even have Allison's number. _Fuck._ he thought. _So much fucking trouble. _


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Not to worry! It's still coming. I'm just not on vacation any more so I can't do it as fast as I was! Reviews are the great motivator. Your comments are wonderful--so many thanks! It's great to know people are reading this and obsessed with it too.

Little voice says I'm going crazy . . .

--Violent Femmes

The look on John Bender's face as turned back to wave was pretty much priceless and Claire would have liked to put it in a locket or blackmail him with it or maybe both.

But then, all the way home on the bus, Claire thought about other things. She thought of the way John Bender had looked at her after tasting her lips and replayed the way his lips and mouth and tongue had felt. She thought of him waiting all that time for her outside the pharmacy in the cold, smoking cigarette after cigarette and maybe feeling nervous. She thought of his face at lunch, and in the hall, she thought of his voice and the feel of his breath as he whispered in her ear.

She let her body fall against the cold metal of the bus and her head fall sideways against the window glass so she could feel the vibrations of the road in her skull. Her eyes lazed across the suburban landscape as lawns got larger and more manicured and cars got shinier. Clutching her paper bag, she wondered if her mom would lecture her again for wasting time and money on drug store brands when she had spared no expense and nagged her father so Claire could have the charge account at Saks' and purchase the quality cosmetics that wore longer and were _so _much better for the skin and included the cost of a consultant to match skin tones and types and blah, blah, blah.

Whose teen rebellion was summed up by shopping at a drug store? Whose parents complained when they didn't spend _enough_ money?

Claire fingered her sweater. _I guess Mom and Dad really do put the cash in cashmere._ She hadn't really thought before, how much those sweaters cost. But running over in her mind John's fingers running over the sweater and how that had felt, his fingers not quite touching her skin, she thought she might have paid double.

But if _they_ knew whose fingers had been on that sweater, and what use she'd put the _drug store_ cherry lip gloss to, and what use John Bender had put it to, her parents might have cut her off. Claire smiled and ran her finger over her lips. Allison had been so right. The flavored lip gloss had been a really good idea. Claire had thought it was so seventh grade but the look on John's face after he first tasted it was probably worth the price of her Saks charge card if it came to that.

She wondered how he'd come to be there, waiting on the sidewalk for her with his gaze and his smokes and his hands. Had Allison told him to come? Had he asked Allison how to find her? Had it been his idea? _Why_ didn't she have Allison's number? She would have loved to call her when she got home.

Home. Oops. Claire looked around. She was clearly near her neighborhood but she was pretty sure she had gone past the stop. It had been a while, it was true, since she took the bus. She pulled on the cord for the next stop. Her father would kill her for walking home from the _bus_ after dark. Or maybe he'd just laugh. Claire laughed a little. Teen rebellion part two: took bus home, refusing private driver.

She was a rebel all right.

Not for the first time that day, Claire found herself wondering if John would laugh or sneer at her "lavender rebellion." She wondered if he knew what she wouldn't even admit to herself, that she was wearing her hood on the street after school because she wasn't sure she wanted to be seen with the very people who filled her thoughts and fueled her hopes. And if he knew that made her feel a little sick, to think that about herself, that she was doing that and being that person even while trying not to be. He helped her put her hood on. How much did John Bender get her?

It wasn't like she was ashamed. She was kind of proud of her new friends, she thought they were cool and interesting but part of that was that they were a little separate from her public life. And her life was _so_ public. She just didn't want to deal with having the fact that she went shopping with Allison or walked for three blocks with John Bender be the major topic of conversation with all her friends and people who weren't her friends. She was just learning to know them and all that _bullshit_ was so much pressure.

That was mostly it. She just wanted to have her new life and new friends be a little bit private. That was mostly it, and anything else she was feeling that led her to pull her hood up or hang around after school before meeting Allison or look like she wasn't talking to John Bender or kissing John Bender when it was all she thought about doing, any feeling like that was bad and she hated it and she was trying to not feel it but she wasn't perfect. Old feelings and habits die hard and she would just have to do something. Something to make up for it.

As Claire got off the bus and walked slowly past the few cute "shoppes" by the bus stop, then the mansions, the BMWs and sculpted bushes, and climbed the back way up the hill to her house, her heart was a little heavier. How had she gotten to the point of worrying whether she was _worthy_ of John Bender? But here she was. Not afraid she wasn't worthy of him exactly, but wanting to live up to the version of herself he seemed to see when he looked at her _like that, _like when his voice trembled and his hands shook slightly. John stood up to everyone. He might like to see her do a little bit more than wear an old pair of jeans and sneak out to see her friend when she could be sure no one was looking.

Rounding the corner to her house and heading up the long landscaped path to the door, a smile ghosted across her face. He might have to wait for her to be really stand-up and he might have to wait for . . . other things. He'd said he was waiting. He'd said that. She wouldn't put a guess on just how long he'd want to wait around—for anything. But she felt like she could come up with a few ideas so that at least his waiting wasn't boring.

*****

As John Bender walked the many blocks back to his house he felt like the world probably didn't hold enough nicotine to calm his nerves. He could always smoke a bowl but he'd figured that day he wanted to feel all those feelings that were shooting around his brain and body like fireworks or burning like slow flames. It was so different having good feelings he wanted to get the most out of them.

But right now, and since she said it, the thought of Claire Standish unable to sleep for the thought of him was a feeling that was more than good, and it drove out every other thought but wasn't a thought itself or even a feeling, it was more like a blanket of want that was all around him but that he couldn't quite touch. It was so much more than good that it might kill him here in the cold as the air grew dark around him and his feet carried him closer and closer to home.

How could she say that to him and then leave like that? How could they possibly make a sweater that was that soft? How could her skin turn the color it did just by looking at him? How could he possibly have become such a fucking idiot? How the hell was he ever going to spend any time with her? He suspected Claire was a girl who might like to be taken somewhere other than an abandoned building. He suspected he was a guy who would like to take her somewhere other than an abandoned building.

Like to his bedroom. For a weekend. He wouldn't even have to go farther than they already had. He could just lick her lips and watch her like it. He could just lie there and watch her bite her lips after he licked them which was how he knew that _she _knew that she liked something. A lot. He could look at her look at him and watch her blush under her sweater.

He was going to lose his fucking mind over that girl and like it.

Or maybe they could go for a coffee or a coke or whatever dorks did when they liked girls.

Maybe they could talk.

But first he was probably going to have to go home.

Home. The idea of calling that place by that name was perverted. John didn't want to go there, he'd rather stay out here on the street and sleep in the cold with the warm idea of Claire Standish giggling with Allison Reynolds of all people over which lip gloss she'd let him taste on her lips, and nothing to make it seem less real or less likely than it already did.

He'd rather huddle in the shelter of a dumpster and smoke cigarettes instead of eating dinner while the adults in his life used all their limited vocabulary and conversational skills to try to convince their son that he was worth less than the food on his plate. Or maybe it would be one of those evenings of a TV dinner alone in his room, the congealed cup of apple crisp looking up at him in a kind of horrible reproach, like it was in league with his mom and dad in a conspiracy to disappoint him, as if it was dedicated to being as big a failure at being dessert as they were at being parents.

John stopped and lit a cigarette. He glared at the dirty wall of a building he was passing, hitting it first with the flat of his hand and then turning to lean into it, then to his bang the back of his head against the brick. He was not going there. There was no way in hell he was going there right now. He'd find Skins and whoever else, they'd get stoned and maybe have a couple of beers. _Then_ he'd go home and stare down his TV dinner.

He liked a girl. Fine. He liked a girl a lot. It didn't mean he'd sprouted wings and a goddamn halo.

And tomorrow, he'd figure out some way of talking to Claire. More than that. He'd figure out some way of saying something to her..

*******

When her father's driver dropped Claire off for school slightly early the next day, the first thing Claire saw was John Bender in his long coat and scarf pacing like a caged animal. He was over to one side of the building and there were already a quite a few kids hanging out on the steps between them. He looked like he'd been waiting for someone and his eyes followed her as she swung her legs out of the car. His eyes were on her as she stood on her higher than usual heels and pulled down her shorter than usual skirt. He stared she smoothed her just slightly more form-fitting usual cashmere sweater under her coat and adjusted her necklace. She looked straight at John and smiled with half her mouth in a way he thought looked like real dessert, like icing on a cake.

Then she grabbed her bag and walked up the stairs, pausing here and there to check in with friends and enemies.

John Bender had only slowed his pace slightly as Claire had pulled up but when she started moving around in her clothes like that he stopped dead in his tracks and when she looked at him and smiled he felt the same as if she'd pushed him.

John didn't want to follow her too closely even with his eyes but he was really in no mood to wait around. His night once he'd gotten home had been hell and his mother's nastiness and bullshit was still ringing in his ears. Last night he'd tried to drown it out with the thought of Claire not sleeping because of thinking about him too much and that had not helped _him _sleep. The thought of Claire ever seeing where he lived or what his parents were like or how his house smelled made it seem very unlikely that she'd continue to think of him and not sleep, at least not in the way he hoped she meant it.

To calm himself down he'd done a few more onehits into a rolled up towel which had made him cough, then made him fuzzy, and all that had meant a morning headache. He'd gotten up and out by six, avoiding all possibility of a parent. He'd had to shell out for a cup of coffee to clear his head and stay awake and then he'd been at school almost an hour early. He'd been thinking about Claire so much he felt like it must be afternoon already, when in actuality that wasn't until another six hours of only hoping to catch a glimpse of her had passed.

He had no idea what her schedule was or how people like her lived. He thought maybe glee was involved but that probably came later in the day. He was waiting by the door because he'd seen her get in a car there once. And then there was the car and then there she was and he felt relief and then he had no idea what to do. As soon as he saw her, seeing her felt like no where near enough.

Every word that Claire said to anyone that wasn't John Bender seemed like some kind of bad joke to her. Why did she just not go up to him? Why was it like this? She told someone, she couldn't even swear who, that she had to run in because she had to recopy part of her trig because she'd spilled coffee on it. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out the paper. "Major drag. Gotta book." She rolled her eyes and waved it in the air.

Once inside Claire made straight to the office and went to the secretary. She put her head to one side and began wheedling. "Ms Mantego, I need help. I'm having, like, a major trig crisis and I totally need a quiet place to go for my study hall third period. Just part of it. I overslept for all but the last five minutes of extra help and I found out I'm gonna need to redo, like, three problems before fifth period or I won't get credit. Normally it's like whatever but I've got these total loser boys in my study halls and they like, are _so gross_ to me, you know? The teacher never sees but they're always, like, ogling me. Can you _please_ just find me an empty classroom or something, just for maybe the first 10 minutes? If I don't pull a B my parents are going to go ballistic. and I'm _trying so hard._"

Ms Mantego sighed patiently. "Claire Standish. Is it so hard to be pretty?"

Claire blushed a little genuinely and then said, "You know how it is, right? I mean, you totally must have gone through the same thing. And trig _is_ so hard_. _Are triangles, like, really _so important_?"

Mrs Mantego turned to a scheduling volume on my desk. "Well, Room 335 is usually 9th grade history in 3rd period, but they have a field trip. You can go there for the first twenty minutes, then check in with me, show me your trig problems because I wasn't born yesterday, and I'll give you a pass to study hall. In fact, why don't you give me a look at them now, so I can see the difference."

Claire breathed an enormous sigh of relief. She pulled out the piece of paper she'd held up outside. "See? I even spilled coffee on it trying to stay up to do it. It is totally kicking my . . . behind, you know? Thank you _so much_ for understanding."

But the secretary was already looking over Claire's shoulder and from the expression on her face she was less than happy to see her next visitor. Her mouth settled into a grim line.

"John Bender. Isn't this a little early in the morning to be in here, even for you? Mr Vernon isn't in yet. Who sent you?"

Claire's heart stopped beating and then started again but much faster. She looked at the second hand on the large white wall clock in front of her and watched it inch along its track. She didn't turn around. She was sure if she turned around and saw John it would be immediately obvious that she was ridiculously happy to see him or she would try so hard to cover it up that she wouldn't look happy to see him and then he would get the wrong idea. She wanted to turn around. She didn't turn around. The second hand showed only a few seconds had passed.

"Mrs Mantego, aren't you worried it's hard for _me_ to be pretty too?" John's voice was full of concern and a little bit of bite.

Mrs Mantego rolled her eyes. "It doesn't keep me up nights, no."

Claire had snorted and tried to turn it into a cough but then at Mrs Mantego's choice of words she could feel herself turning red. She just had to turn around.

She did turn around. John Bender stood behind her with his typical stance of try and even make me give a shit. Dead sexy. He looked at her. She thought especially he looked at her where her sweater met her skin. She looked an incredulous "what gives?" at him, because he should know he shouldn't be here, while Mrs Mantego repeated her first question, "Who sent you?"

"Wait, why don't _I _get a hall pass? You know girls are crazy about me. You can't imagine how _hard_ it can be to concentrate when you know you're keeping girls up at night thinking about you."

John took a beat to steal a look at Claire. If he had to guess, she knew exactly what he was talking about. He turned back to Mrs Mantego, adding, "And then _I_ can't sleep. See? Being good-looking makes study hall _so difficult._

Claire found herself unable to leave. John Bender was talking completely seriously and in a totally deadpan way and she couldn't even put her finger on what gave the whole speech such a mocking tone. It sounded like he was making fun of her and Mrs Mantego and of course he _was_ making fun of her and Mrs Mantego. And then in another way he was telling her, Claire Standish, something, something that was important to be staging all this for. And he_ did_ look tired. He was even managing to look earnest. Even if the real earnest was somewhere underneath the apparent earnestness which was part of the mocking.

Claire was fascinated. She thought John Bender might be a genius. She also thought he might drive her completely insane.

Mrs Mantego looked less impressed. "For the third time, John Bender, and Mr Vernon will be here soon so I suggest you deal with me while you have the chance, who sent you here and what did you do?"

John put his head down as if in shame and then looked up at the secretary, a picture of exaggerated contrition. "I was running in the hallways, ma'am."

The secretary raised her heavily penciled eyebrows. "You. John Bender. Were running in the hallways of Shermer High, and not to get out of it? What are you up to?" She looked genuinely worried.

Looking straight at her, John leaned deep over into her desk, his big coat brushing past Claire who was still standing there. She felt every thread of the coat. She didn't move. While John's coat brushed softly against Claire's legs so that she could feel the wool scratching right through her stockings, John began speaking very confidentially to Mrs Mantego. He looked straight into Mrs Mantego's eyes and spoke with something that could have been sarcasm or could have been intensity.

"You see, it happened like this. I heard that the prom queen was in here. When I realized I could be in the same room with her even just for a few minutes, I couldn't control myself. I ran all the way." He shook his head, and looked down, and then resumed his confessional, maintaining the same dead serious, mocking tone. "I'm just that crazy about Claire Standish." He hung his head again. He even shuffled his feet.

He stole another glimpse at Claire. Bingo. He was definitely having an effect. He _loved_ that. He could feel a smile tugging on his lips and he kept his head down to hide it.

Mrs Mantego shook her head. "Claire, sweetheart. Forget I said anything. I guess it is hard to be that pretty. You can count on me any time."

Claire knew she was biting her lip and hoped it looked a little pissed off or something. She also hoped that she looked sufficiently grateful when she acknowledged Mrs Mantego's words and nodded her thanks.

She really had no idea, though, because inside Claire Standish, the entire collection of butterflies was now back in full force under every single inch of her skin and breathing was an enormous challenge that she wasn't quite up to. Just because of hearing John Bender say those words when he wasn't even serious. Part of her wanted to crack up because John was really funny and part of her wanted to hit him because coming there was so stupid and pointless and he should be trying to stay out of trouble, not get into it. Part of her wanted the whole office with its orange carpeting and beige walls and grimy fake flowers to melt away so she could just be kissing John Bender because he looked so good when he was being arrogant and smartass and taking risks because of her. And then part of her wanted die of happiness at the thought that even one thing that he had just said about being out of control and crazy about her might be even a little bit true.

"And as for _you,_" continued Mrs Mantego, looking sternly at John, "what do you think you're doing, picking on a nice girl like Claire? Show some respect. You said yourself, it's not like you don't have plenty of others to keep you busy." Mrs Mantego put an unpleasant emphasis on "others" and curled her lip.

Unfortunately, in addition to the other complicated feelings that were competing with the butterflies and the breathing and the problem of how not to look like a total idiot in the middle of the Shermer High office, Claire now wanted to kill Mrs Mantego. She wanted to commit this murder not only because Mrs Mantego suggested that Claire was somehow above John, which was a way of thinking Claire really didn't want him reminded of, but also because she'd mentioned other girls, like the girls in his wallet, which was a way of thinking Claire _really_ didn't want him reminded of. Or be reminded of herself.

Claire would absolutely, positively not say a single word about it ever again but the thought of the girls in John Bender's wallet made her ill.

John caught Claire's slight change of breath at Mrs Mantego's comment about "others" and he pretty much could have strangled the bitch right there. But instead, he surprised himself yet again.

It had been a pretty big surprise to find himself running down the hall to try to run _into_ the school office and when he got there it had been an even bigger surprise to hear an incredibly ditsy version of Claire Standish manage to convince the school secretary to give her a private classroom for however long, off the books, and with no adult supervision. It was even a surprise that he could for one second suspect, although he didn't really believe it, that her reasons for doing that impressive thing had something to do with him. But the biggest surprise of all were the words that came out of his mouth next when he looked at her and saw that the secretary's comment had made her sad.

John looked straight at Claire, looking her up and down. Claire felt like he could see right through her, like he knew exactly what she was feeling and thinking. But he was also looking like he could see right through her sweater, or that he was at least trying very hard, and this made her feel warm and made her face turn redder. He was standing close to her. His coat was still brushing against her legs from time to time and she was completely aware of his physical presence and she was completely aware that he knew this. She was about to begin to get angry with him for making her feel so uncomfortable and embarrassed.

Then he said it.

"I don't know, Mrs Mantego. It's hard to think about other girls when you're standing next to a real honest to goodness _teen princess._"

He made it sound like a joke. He made it sound like an insult. But in reality, John Bender had once again said exactly the perfect right thing. He had managed to sweep her off her feet in the middle of the school office without anyone else being able to tell and in a way that was almost certainly going to piss off the school secretary _because of the way he was treating Claire herself_—and probably get him in trouble with Principal Dick.

Claire looked down, completely unable to meet his eyes. So she only heard the still-mocking tone of his next comment. "It's a shame, Mrs Mantego, but between Claire Standish and your lovely self, those other girls just might be out of luck."

And as soon as he said it, didn't need to look at Claire to know he'd nailed that one just right. Score one for the burnout. He had a ghost of a suspicion that he might also have just changed whatever game they were playing, but as long as he was winning, he didn't much care.

Claire began flouncing out of the office. She was not going to be able to stand here for another minute without throwing herself at John and making out with him and in front of Mrs Mantego was not where she wanted that to happen. Then she stopped. She had planned to leave a note for him but now she wouldn't have time before third period. She had to think fast. She took a deep breath. She turned to face John Bender, full in view of Mrs Mantego at the same time.

Pinning John beneath her best version of queen outrage and disgust, she looked witheringly into his face and said, "Just to get this straight. You stood there, behind my back, and listened to my private conversation?"

John looked highly amused. He was turned to face her so that Mrs Mantego couldn't see his expression. "Every word I could. You know, like I was _hanging on your lips._"

"OK, so you are more gross than should be legal. And now, like, you _know_ my personal business and where I'm going to be?"

John nodded very slightly, and then said loudly, "Don't worry, _princess,_ even you couldn't pay me enough to get that close to," and he leaned forward a little, as if he were going to say something really juicy and insulting, "trigonometry."

Claire turned her back and hoped the obvious huff she was trying to walk off in hid what felt like it must be a whole body smile. John Bender was definitely one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to her.

John watched her stalk off. He _thought_ that Claire Standish had just walked out of the office after making sure he knew to meet her in the classroom she had arranged to be alone in by lying and scheming and pretending to be an airhead to the school secretary.

He had the prom queen not only blushing but misbehaving. It was like he'd died and gone to a special heaven for John Benders.

Except for what happened next. Dick Vernon walked in and sneered at the sight of him before barking, "Bender. My office!" That was more like a special John Bender hell. But John realized that he could replay in his mind pretty much every breath Claire had taken under that _cashmere_ sweater and realized that she had probably worn it because he had liked the other one. He also realized that she had just managed to work a way that he'd be to _touch_ it in just a couple of hours.

John figured that whatever had just happened, and he was still trying to figure it out—whatever had happened was definitely worth whatever Vernon was shelling out.

And he had to admit. Score one for the princess.


	6. Chapter 6

it always seems like you're leaving  
when I know the other one  
just a little too well.

--Violent Femmes

A/N: OK, I got such a nice review in the middle of work today that I decided to post this a little early. So, it's shorter and a little more cliff-hangery (guess my favorite TV show for a bonus prize) than usual. Thank you! And probably, if you don't want me to leave it here, review the hell out of it because I'm kinda busy. If not, then, it might be a little longer but I write for the story and the poor characters more than anything, so even if you're shy, I'll finish it someday.

Claire was rushing to get to homeroom. The office had taken longer than she'd planned. You couldn't really plan for events like John Bender. She sighed. It made life so much more interesting, though.

She was still all fluttery and distracted and in this state she ran almost straight into Allison and Andy, who were walking slowly in the other direction. Andy was carrying Allison's books.

Andy laughed at Claire. "Walk much?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well not all of us have a butler—or, you know, are one."

Andy turned a little pink. Allison just smiled. Then she said, narrowing her eyes a little, "Root beer."

Claire laughed. "Bubble gum."

Andy looked from one to the other like they both might be crazy. "Is this some kind of a code?"

Allison whirled and looked at him, her face totally intense. "Yes. We came up with a plan for world domination. Yesterday. In the drug store. It's very nefarious. It involves purple."

Claire worked hard to keep a straight face. How were Allison and John so good at it? She had a lot to learn. She turned slowly to Andy. "There might still be time for you to stop us. But you'll have to do careful research. And we change the code constantly."

Claire turned to go. Very broadly, and loudly, though, she turned and called—"I'll talk to you at lunch, Allison."

Allison waved back in a kind of pleased disbelief. The bell rang and Allison grabbed her books and planted a quick, firm kiss on Andy's lips. Then she was gone. She left Andy standing alone in the hall, late for class and licking his lips with a stupid grin on his face. "Ok. Root beer," he thought to himself.

Just before turning through the door to homeroom, Claire caught sight of Ruth-Ann and managed a wave. She could tell Ruth-Ann had seen the whole exchange with Allison and Andy because her face was twisted into a kind of incredulous sneer that she tried unsuccessfully to turn into a smile when she saw Claire. Claire also noted, to her total embarrassment and disbelief, that Ruth-Ann was wearing a pair of jeans that looked suspiciously . . . distressed. In exactly the same place Claire's had been the day before.

Claire rolled her eyes. What_ever._

*****

Arms crossed, legs crossed and kicked out in front of him, John Bender stared at Dick Vernon staring at him. John was pretty impressed by the variety of textures his hate for this man could take on. He waited for Vernon to speak again.

"For the last time, who sent you and what did you do?"

"I told you, _sir,_ I caught myself running in the halls and I turned myself in. It's very simple. Have you been tested for any kind of cognitive difficulties, sir? Because we have special classes for that here at Shermer."

"Why would you turn yourself in? Did you not get enough of me on Saturday?" Vernon made the sign that John interpreted as the horns of the bull.

"Don't you want us to be upstanding school citizens? What if ratting myself out is just the first step to my ratting out my friends? Isn't that what you want?" John figured he could do this for a while. Small price to pay, really.

"What I want." Dick Vernon leaned back. "What I want, Bender, is a world without punks like you in it. Or at least a world without _you_ in it. Can you make that happen? Huh, punk?"

Bender stared at him in shocked silence. The thought ran through his head: _the principal of my fucking high school is encouraging me to kill myself._ He wished, not for the first time, that he had a tape recorder for these little sessions.

"Failing that," continued Vernon, "I want you to explain to me why my secretary is upset at the way you were treating that girl, that Standish girl. Because what you told the secretary and what you told me, your two stories, don't add up. You're up to something, Bender, and I want to know what it is."

John rolled his eyes. "I explained to Mrs Mantego. Maybe she should be in resource with you. Because I told her. I'm crazy about Claire Standish ever since you put us together in detention. I saw her walk in here. I couldn't help myself, and I ran after her. Then, because I want to be a better, more worthwhile person to deserve her, I turned myself in." He held his hands up and raised his eyebrows.

Vernon pointed a finger at him, "I don't know what your game is, Bender, but let me make one thing perfectly clear to you. Criminals like you don't get to go anywhere near girls like that. Even as part of whatever bad joke you think you're making."

"Well, gee, _Dick,_ then why did you put us _together_ in _detention_?"

"Everyone has their lessons to learn. Hers don't concern you. But just because there's the same rules for everyone doesn't mean that everyone is the same, you got that, punk?" Vernon was pointing his finger at him for emphasis again. At least he wasn't touching him.

John Bender stared at him, incredulous. "Got it."

"I know this is all a big joke to you, Bender, and I know we'll probably figure out in a few days what you were really up to. But I hope, for your sake, you don't think for even a moment that there is one chance in ten million that a girl like Claire Standish would even think about looking at you with anything but total disgust?"

Bender shook his head. He was not going to let this happen. He was not going to go to this place. He _knew _this place.

John thought about Claire's face in the closet, Claire's face when she first looked at him and tried to get him to stop doing—what he was doing now, actually, to stop baiting Vernon that day in detention, to stop digging himself a deeper hole. The look on that face. It was anything but disgust.

He remembered exactly how he felt.

He looked straight at Dick Vernon and said with total honesty, "Nothing would surprise me more, sir."

"So you understand that you'll have nothing to do with her?"

"You know, _Dick,_ I'm not sure that your authority extends to our social lives. I'm pretty sure we have freedom of association. I'm pretty sure that is in the Constitution."

"The Constitution doesn't apply to children, you moron."

"_What_ did you just call me? I'm sure the resource room teachers will not be pleased to hear of your use of disrespectful language pertaining to their students, Principal Vernon."

"Don't you get it, punk? No one will believe a word you say against me. You're nothing. No one. Zero. Now I want you out of here. Get to class. And if I hear one more word about your mouthing off to Claire Standish, I'll have a talk with her father about it. He could make life all kinds of difficult for you. And not just for you. For anyone he pays"

Bender realized that Dick Vernon thought he was threatening his parents. Did his parents somehow work for the Standishes? He had no idea. Who knew what the fuck the Standishes owned in this town. His father worked security. He didn't even know for sure who he worked for. John swallowed. If Dick Vernon ever got the idea that John's father was a good way to get to John, the pathetic excuse he _had_ for a life would be _completely_ over.

John thought fast. A good offense is the best defense. Or something. Worked for him.

"You do that, sir. Make sure you tell him how you introduced us. Make sure you explain how you put us together, unsupervised, for nine hours. Because I'm sure he was pleased his daughter had detention. And I'm _sure_ Mr Standish would be more than _delighted_ with you, sir, for making sure her punishment was also an opportunity to get _intimate _withan upstanding young gentleman such as myself."

"Are you just desperate for more Saturdays with me, Bender?"

"Are you? Because every Saturday I spend with you is one you spend with me. I can't think of a better way of getting back at you, _Dick._"

Dick Vernon stared at him as if this side of the equation was just now revealed to him. "Get out of here, punk, and don't let me see you again until Saturday if you know what's good for you.

**

John missed half of first period talking to Dick Vernon and that pissed him off even more than having to go to first period did. Words from Dick Vernon kept flinging around in his brain, interfering with the good vibe he'd been getting from Claire. They picked up echoes from his mother, echoes that had been drowned out by the fun he'd had in the office with Claire. But now those echoes were back and with Vernon and his mother ganging up on him in his own mind by the time he got to second period, he was in a foul mood.

Really, what did make him think he could look at, much less touch, a girl like Claire Standish? Maybe a kiss in a closet or cop a feel of some rich fabric in a doorway. But really touch her. John Bender looked at his own hand. He had to admit. It seemed pretty unlikely

When he made it to second period, Brian Johnson was hovering just outside the door. Brian took just one look at Bender's dark stormcloud of a face and jumped backwards as if he'd been stung or touched electricity the wrong way. Bender did a doubletake.

"What gives? Do you think I bite?"

Brian laughed nervously. "No. Why would I think that? I mean, you clearly don't, right?"

John looked at him in disbelief. "Riight." He drew out the word a little in contempt. He was not in a good mood.

"Well, listen. I just. You know. Thought. I mean, that way you wouldn't feel as if you had to and so. It's a second bag. And then I had French with Claire, because we do, and she was worried."

John shook his head. "You French with Claire, as you do, so I wouldn't have to. And she's upset about your bag. Brian, I find that hard to believe"

Brian looked terrified. "No!! I mean, I didn't say that. I mean I would never, and she—never.

Bender sighed. "Fine. Try again." He looked at his bare wrist. "You have thirty seconds."

"Claire passed me a note in French _class,_ which we have together. It said you were in with Principal Vernon. She was worried."

"She said she was worried in the note."

"She made a worried face."

"She passed _you_ a note about _me. _With my name on it?"

"Duh. Do I look psychic?"

Bender shot him a look.

"I mean, yes. How else would I know who she was talking about? And so I passed her a note saying I had to talk to you and I'd check in, you know, which I don't usually do because it's disruptive"

"_Talking _to me is disruptive?"

"Um. Passing notes is. Disruptive. Of class. Talking to you _can_ be, you know, cool. I brought you your own bag."

"Pudding?"

Brian smiled and gave Bender a thumbs up. "And John. I mean, I think she really does. Care about you."

John looked up sharply. "Did she say that in a note?"

Blushing, Brian shook his head. "No. She doesn't have to. I mean, you, like, lay into her for hours on Saturday and she still looked at you in that way. And how many notes do you think Claire Standish writes to me in French class? Like, on a typical day."

John looked down and smiled. "Point taken. See you at lunch, brainface."

He walked into class with a little of his good mood back.

***

Tap. Tap. Tap. Claire's pencil nervously tapping on the side of her book was making her more nervous. She couldn't look at the clock to see how long she'd been there. She had her trig book open. She was looking at trig. She was trying to be nonchalant.

He wasn't here.

Room 335. Empty. She had been so sure he'd understood. She'd been so fluttery afterwards, it had been like walking on air, or stumbling on air because it was making her clumsy, feeling that much alive all at once. She'd almost knocked over Allison and Andy. And then that went well. Allison still looked cute. They had a secret joke. She publicly told her she'd see her at lunch. All her plans and resolutions seemed to be going better than expected. Maybe telling Allison she'd see her at lunch was lavender. At least it wasn't quite beige or pink.

But then she'd seen Ruth-Ann with her stupid, nasty-looking sneer and her stupider copy-cat jeans, the jeans she'd _ragged on Claire for_ yesterday. She so didn't care what Ruth-Ann thought of her but Ruth-Ann so clearly cared _too much_ about what people thought of Claire and what people thought of Ruth-Ann and what people thought about the two of them, like, compared. It made Claire want, suddenly, and maybe for the first time, to be nobody. Someone no one would notice. Someone who could go right up to Allison Reynolds—much less John Bender—and smile and say hi and have no one notice or think anything about it.

That was the beginning of the worries. Because Claire Standish knew she was not that person, and someone had noticed that she'd said hi to Allison Reynolds and she wasn't sure how it would work out, for her or for Allison. And if she said hi to, much less walked down the halls with, John Bender, then all hell really would break loose.

Then, as Claire sat trying to conjugate verbs of motion in the past tense next to Brian Johnson, where she'd sat on purpose to show she still liked him, she'd been overcome with the sense that John Bender was in a room alone with that _asshole,_ that Principal Dick, and she used the bad words in her thoughts and almost said them out loud. She realized that John was in there because of her, and it wasn't for the first time.

Well. Not that she'd made him do it.

But maybe if she just said hi to him he wouldn't have had to do all that. He wouldn't have gone to Principal Dick's office and gotten more detention.

Maybe if she just was with him like normal, _she_ wouldn't have had to do all that in the office either, lying and pretending and sucking up.

The truth was, though, she'd liked doing all that. She'd loved it. It had been fun, it made her blood rush, it was different and she felt daring. It was something they were doing together, private but public. It was exciting. She _knew_ he felt that too. He was the one who taught her, "being bad feels pretty good."

She wanted it to feel better. With him. She wanted to feel so many things with him it made her head spin.

But he wasn't actually here.

Claire realized then that she had also made sure she was safe. She would have a hall pass. She'd covered her own ass.

She didn't have a pass for John. She had just assumed he was always skipping class and that he'd be ok with it. She'd assumed it would be ok for him to be in trouble again. With the principal that locked him in a closet, as he thought, for hours and hours without food or water.

This made Claire feel a little miserable. More like she was the person John had thought she was when he was yelling at her and sneering at her. Like someone who thought she counted for more than other people or made snap judgments about people or worse, didn't really think about _some_ other people at all, or at least not in the right way.

Maybe he was back in that closet now. Maybe he didn't come because Vernon had done something to him. She never had seen Brian to hear if he'd talked to John. There hadn't been time. It hadn't been very long.

It felt like forever.

She could have said hi to him. It wasn't that much. She didn't have to just walk on by. His words echoed in her head. "You know how shitty that is to do to someone!" Didn't he understand?

But then, he didn't say hi to her either. Not publicly. Not in front of his friends. Maybe he didn't want to be seen with her. He'd actually said that, actually said that very thing. That she didn't need to worry what people would say when they walked down the halls together because it was never going to happen.

Of course. Things had changed since then. They had kissed twice. They had held hands. Which, him being John Bender, might mean more. They had discussed cashmere.

But that didn't mean he wanted to have her as his public girlfriend. Or his girlfriend at all. He wasn't even that kind of guy.

All those hopes and flutters Claire had felt over his words in the office were being replaced by small anxieties. She took a deep breath. She remembered the touch of his lips and skin.

But it would be better if she didn't have to remember. It would have been better if he had come. Then she could say, she was sorry for being selfish. She could. She didn't know what. She just knew she felt better when he was right there in front of her than when he wasn't.

When she heard the door click open she felt her breath sharply in her chest and she felt the tears pricking behind her eyes and she didn't even care if it was someone to bust her. That way at least he might get the message that she was risking something for him.

But right. She wasn't. She was sitting there, with permission, doing her trig homework. She looked at her book. She wasn't doing anything risky at all. She couldn't even make herself look up.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N So. Turns out that review thing really works. I think this might be some pretty strong T so, read with caution (or added interest). We are deep in Bender country here. Enjoy and tell me that you did.

Dear lady there's so many things,  
that I have come to fear  
Little voice says I'm going crazy,  
to see all my worlds disappear . . .

Violent Femmes

When John made it through the door of 335 he stopped short and took a moment. He wanted to be running. Part of him even wanted to be crying. But that wasn't how he was going to play this.

He knew he was late. Later than _he_ wanted. But there had been Vernon, right down the hall, busting some other student, and he just couldn't face that again. Vernon was a freak. So John had hung back in a different doorway until he was gone.

So he was late. Big deal? He didn't know. He didn't really know what it meant to keep a princess waiting. He didn't really know if she thought waiting was a two-way street. Seemed, like other things, unlikely. He didn't even walk all the way into the room but hung in doorway before it opened out into the room, just, he figured, out of sight. He had to calm his heart rate just a little bit.

He caught a glimpse of Claire though, nose in her book. She didn't even look up right away. Was that really what she needed? Was she really here to study? Was he just a convenient addition? He considered the fact of a note to Brian Johnson. He _knew_ Claire wanted to see him. He _knew_ she cared. Even Dick Vernon could not fuck him up on this.

But taking advantage of circumstances, for a princess, wasn't the same as working hard to create them.

He wanted the second one. He wanted that _so badly. _

But he played it cool. He strolled into the room. He leaned against the wall. He crossed his arms and looked at Claire. She looked at her book. What was up? Was she that pissed off? Had he gotten this wrong, was he not supposed to be here?

"Surprised to see me, Cherry?"

Claire jumped in her skin. Apparently she was. Then she looked up. She smiled at him. A little weakly, but she smiled. John could feel his heart get less tight. But as John looked at her face, he could see was upset. Was she pissed off that he came? Pissed off that he came late? He shook his head, then looked at her again.

He watched as she put her pencil down. She looked down, bit her lip, looked up. She was flushed. John had no idea what was going on but the sight of her was calming him down and working him up at the same time. He wanted her to get up from behind that desk. Whatever she had had in mind. He wanted to see more of her. Like her legs.

Wait. She was talking.

"What do you mean, surprised? I was worried. Then you startled me."

"Sorry to keep you waiting, _Princess." _John was a little shocked by his own tone. It sounded harsh. It sounded different from how he was feeling. He frowned.

Claire's face crumbled a little. John had a sinking feeling of dread. There. He had done it. He had fucked it up. It had just been a matter of time. He shifted. He kept his arms crossed. Guys like him probably didn't get to touch her, after all. Not because of her. Because of him.

Then she spoke again. "No, no, not like that. John, I'm not _like that._ Please. I—I don't think like that. I'm sorry. I didn't want to get you in trouble. I didn't think. I was just having fun—in the office. I wanted to see you. I just thought, I don't know, it would be fun if you came here. But I didn't want you to get in trouble because of me."

Her face was mesmerizing. He wanted to remember it forever. She looked like she was about to cry. Because of him. But not because he'd been trying to hurt her. Because Brian Johnson was right. She cared about him.

And he was a total and utter asshole not to have seen it. He _had_ seen it. And all it took was a few minutes with Dick Vernon to almost get him to throw it the fuck away. He had _known _about this even in Vernon's office. What the fuck was _wrong _with him?

Still, there she was, still feeling bad. And there he was. Still not helping.

"Claire. Do you have magical powers now? How do you suppose you got me in trouble? Trust me. I need no help with that." He smiled. He still sounded angry. He hated his voice. He _was_ angry. But not at her.

She actually sniffed. Like she _had _been crying. But her eyes weren't red. She tried to smile. A little. "I _know_ you don't. That's why I don't want to help you. But I want—I don't think Vernon is ok with you."

John snorted bitterly. "What makes you think that? He wants to be with me _every weekend._ We're practically engaged." He considered that he would rather die than have Claire know what he and Vernon _had_ talked about. That would _really_ be the end.

"I mean—what did he say to you? You seem—even this morning. Before the office. You—did something happen?" She looked up at him. Her eyes were big. They were like question marks.

He didn't want to lie to her. He wanted to _talk_ to her, he really, really did. But he didn't want to talk about Dick Vernon or her father or his father.

"I mean, did he say something about, me? Since we, you know, since I was in there? That secretary, I don't know—"

Claire sounded timid. And worried.

If he had ten minutes a day to spend with this girl, that wasn't how he wanted to spend it. He'd tell her that.

"Cherry. Back here." He walked to the back of the room. She looked questioningly. That poor kid looked so confused. She wasn't used to this.

"C'mon. This way, if someone walks in, you have a second to deal with it. Plus you know, I can't go near that _trigonometry._"

Claire smiled for real at that. She got up from her desk and automatically smoothed her skirt and smoothed her sweater over her skirt. John felt his eyes open wider. He felt his breath quicken. He wanted to touch her so fucking bad it hurt. He looked at her and watch her _get that._ He watched her look at and feel how much he wanted to touch her. She licked her lips and came a little closer. He looked her up and down again and watched her watching him look at her. He realized he could do this all day. He realized that the reason he didn't kiss her right away is that he liked watching her want him to kiss her. He even liked watching her watch him want to kiss her.

Apparently, he liked losing his fucking mind.

As he had foretold.

And as for any asshole that wanted to keep this from him, let him fucking try.

"If I have ten minutes to spend with you and that sweater, I don't want to spend them talking about Dick fucking Vernon. Get it over here. I wanna continue my cashmere education."

And then Claire was in front of him. He reached out his hand to touch the band of her sweater. This one felt different. He stroked it gently there, up and down just about two inches in the front. She looked up at him seriously and put a hand to his brow and brushed the hair out of his eyes. She trailed her finger down his face, then down his chest. She fiddled with his shirt while she spoke to him.

"This sweater is a little bit tighter weave. Feel how it's a little thicker, a little firmer? But it's still soft."

John nodded seriously. "I do see that." He stroked up, then moved his hand to her face. He stroked her cheek and down to her neck, slowly. He paused. "I think it's important to go over this material a little more, though."

Claire colored and laughed a little at the joke. She didn't stop his hand. His finger continued down, down the side of her neck and lightly over the V of her sweater. He stroked the V, following his finger with eyes. "I want to make sure I understand." He looked at her. Her mouth was slightly open. Her pupils were dilated and her hand had stilled on his shirt. "Soft—" and he hooked his index finger just the smallest bit. Not so that he was under the sweater. Just so that his finger was running down the edge. The part of his finger that lightly touched her skin was fully above her sweater. He met her eyes. She was motionless. She looked hypnotized.

He had to learn how to go just far enough to make her ache for more, and then stop. He wanted more than anything, for Claire to feel each thing they did was something she felt like she might die if she didn't have. It was how he was feeling. He wanted her to match it. He didn't care how long it took. He suddenly realized that was true. He wanted her to _want_ him more than he wanted her to _do_ him.

He ran his finger down her chest, softly between her breasts, just over the sweater there, then applying more pressure on the way back down to her waist, so that her skin there could feel the friction. He said softly, "Just so you know, I'd really like to get more of a handle on this soft but firm concept—" Claire's breath hitched and she opened her mouth like she was about to speak. John put his other finger over her mouth, gently, to quiet her. "But that's going to have to wait. First there are some other important points we need to cover."

John was very impressed by his control. But he _needed_ her to know that there was something major to control.

He moved his hand slowly to her side and curved his fingers around her waist there. He said, "I think we've covered soft for today. But like you said. It really isn't just about soft." He pulled her closer and her hand made to go flat on his chest as if to push him away. He didn't let go right away, but he didn't push either. She breathed more deeply, then faster, then looked up at his face. He felt her hand move slowly up his chest and to the side, to rest on his shoulder, so she was not pushing, but holding him. He could feel her decision to let him keep leading. He could feel her tremble and he kept gently caressing her hip.

Then he pulled her slowly but steadily into him so that their hips touched and he could feel himself pressing into her. He felt her feel that, felt her realize what that meant. He felt her soft intake of breath and watched her quick, wide-eyed stare for a minute. He put his other hand on her cheek and stroked that gently with his thumb. He knew he had to be careful. He had to not pressure her. She just had to know. She _had_ to know what she did to him. He kept his hand in place on her hip, rubbing softly. "As you pointed out, there is also firm." He shifted his hips slightly and looked straight at her. And for a minute, he stopped any pretense of play. His voice was just him, him and his want and his need for her to know it. "You need to understand that."

Claire didn't meet his eyes. John couldn't breathe. He couldn't not breathe. It was the longest minute of his life but Claire did not pull away, which made it also one of the best.

Then she looked up, and it was the shyest and most full on fear and desire he had ever seen. She looked completely raw. John knew right then he would never forget that look until the day he died and he would never be the same after it. "I get that," she said softly. She swallowed. She moved her hips slightly. John thought anything impressive about his control might end right there. Claire took a deep breath. And she drew back slightly, but ran her hand slowly up and down his arm.

"I know, I might have some things to learn. It's not that I . . . might not want to learn it. I just may not be ready to learn about it all at once. And not for a while." She looked at him, a little pleading, as if she thought she really needed to make her case.

John tried to hide the stung feeling that gave him. "You think I don't know that, Cherry? Do you think I'm not ok with that? Do you think I'm _that_ kind of asshole?"

Now it was Claire's turn to put her finger up to John's lips. "What does it mean to be a tease, John? Does it mean, if I want you to want—me, like that, and I _want_ you, but don't want to do—everything? Is that the same as teasing? Don't you kind of like it if we . . . play a little? Can't it be fun?"

John was trying very hard to process the thought that Claire Standish thought he might not be ok with her kissing him and letting him touch her and telling him that she thought about him at night while not sleeping. The other half of his brain and other parts of him and most of his blood was stuck on the word "want" coming out of her mouth with relation to him. This made him dizzy. He had no idea how to explain. The feelings were too much. He simply had no idea how to go about trying to convince the most popular, beautiful girl in the school that he was ok with her wanting to kiss him. He could try just saying that.

"John?"

"Sorry, Princess. I'm having trouble dealing with the fact that I might need to convince the most beautiful in school that I like her kissing me."

Claire laughed shyly and blushed. "Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

John shook his head in disbelief. His whole day was like a whacked out episode of Fantasy Island meets Twilight Zone. Then he realized he'd shaken his head and he shook it again, looked at her, and said "yes."

They both laughed. He took her hand, turned it over in his. "Claire."

"Yes."

"Do you _recall _what you said to me yesterday when you got on that fucking bus and left me standing there wanting to kiss you what felt like more than anything in my life before or after?"

He gave her hand a squeeze. She didn't look at him. There was a little edge back in his voice even though he was trying to keep it light.

She said, without looking at him, "I think you might be referring to when I explained that thinking about you was making it difficult for me to sleep, and I may have alluded to the fact that since you had kissed me again and more and better than anyone else had, I was concerned that I might have even more difficulty the next night. Which was in fact," and here she shrugged a little, as if it was hardly anything, just matter of fact, "the case. Was that what you meant? Was that what you wanted to _recall._"

John put away "more and better than anyone else" for a good long chunk of sleepless night. He wanted to continue now, though. "Were you _playing_ with me? Are you fucking playing with me?" Now he sounded pathetic, to himself, but it was one of the things on his list he felt like he _had_ to know.

Claire took a breath. Then she looked at him. "Honestly, maybe a little. But I'm not _toying _with you. I mean, I think it would have been _toying_ with you if I had said that and not wanted you—like if I'd wanted you to think about it, but it hadn't been true, or I hadn't wanted you to kiss me just as badly—"

But then she couldn't talk any more because John's lips were all over hers and his hands were in her hair and on her shoulders and down her back. He'd completely lost it at Claire's third use of the word "want" while looking at him and talking about kissing him. The "w" did this thing to her lips that somehow twisted the already hot meaning of "want" into some kind of knifepoint of desire. He had to put his mouth on hers and then it tasted like bubblegum, which was lip gloss she'd bought. With him in mind. It was so innocent and sexy at the same time.

John was not so innocent but he was pretty sure he was sexy. The first opening he got he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth and stroked her hard with it. He let his teeth clash into hers. He stroked her mouth again and then again with his tongue until he felt her moan a little. Then he bit at her lips a little, first top, then bottom, and pulled back. He let her bottom lip go. He looked at her. She looked really well kissed. Her breathing was hard and a little uneven. He grasped her face again and pressed her lips again. Then he took hold of her hips, just a little roughly. He didn't grind them into his, for which he deserved another control award. He just held on to them.

"If you're going to play like that, you need to know what you're playing with. You need to know time might come for little payback." He took a breath and rubbed his finger across her swollen lip. "And bubblegum might remind me I have teeth."

Suddenly, her shyness was gone and the look on her face was pure challenge. John swore he felt his blood speed up as she said, "If you're trying to convince me not to say things like that because it might mean you kiss me _like that_ again, you might want to rethink your strategy, John Bender."

All he could do was look at her. He was pretty sure his mouth was open. And then he knew it was, because then she put her mouth back on his, she put it around his bottom lip and sucked on it gently, pulling it into her mouth and sucking it between her teeth and running her tongue over it. She bit it a little bit harder, then pulled back to smirk at him.

"And how do you know that's not why I _bought_ bubble gum-flavored lip gloss in the first place? I thought you were smart. Was I _wrong_?"

John was completely speechless. The thought went through his mind that he'd never been at a loss for words so often and that if this kept up his reputation would be blown. The thought went through his mind that Dick Vernon would have a long time to wait if he thought John Bender was going to ease out of any world that had this kind of girl in it. He somehow hadn't considered the possibility that just one girl could be this much fun, this exciting, this _painful,_ and feel this good.

He couldn't talk. He had to do something else. He started backing Claire up. He stared at her, right in the eyes. She stared right back at him. She let him back her up. He had a hand on one of her arms. Everywhere else, they were almost touching, but not quite. Every single place on his body was aware of almost but not touching Claire Standish. When her back was against the wall, he put one hand on either side of her, completely dominating her with his height and his strength, but not touching her.

"Maybe you _were_ wrong, Claire. I may not be that smart. I didn't know you liked teeth."

"I didn't either. But think about it. What are the chances I'd pick you if I didn't like teeth? I mean, I could have picked Andy. Or Brian. I didn't. Stands to reason I might like something with a little more . . . bite."

John reached with his mouth and sucked gently on her neck. She gasped. "You picked me because you like teeth." He chewed gently up to her ear, and bit that a little harder. He whispered in it, "Like that?"

She looked at him again. She looked incredibly hot. "Can't you tell? Can't you tell if I like it or not? I mean, you're so experienced, and I'm just a pristine virgin, right?"

John shook his head. He was so floored. This was pretty much the most incredible half hour he had ever spent in his life. "I think you're pretty much proving that "virgin" is not a synonym for "pristine." Which by the way is fine with me."

"But can you tell if I like something?"

"Well, let's see. Let's consider the signs. I touched your cash sweater yesterday and you wore another one today. Did you put that sweater on this morning because you knew I would want to touch it like crazy, Claire?"

Claire didn't miss a beat. "If you get to ask questions, then I do too. And you have to tell the truth."

"You too."

"Deal."

"Deal. So answer."

"Yes. The answer to that question is yes. Did I get that one right?"

John closed his eyes and breathed in because suddenly the thought of Claire in lingerie choosing a sweater to put on her body to try to make him want to touch it _more_ short circuited his entire brain by taking up all three top sexiest thing ever positions. Which she already occupied. His nights were going to be _so long._

Finally he managed an answer. "Yes. Duh. Maybe you're the one who's not so smart."

"We'll see. My turn. Did you think I was pretty _before_ I kissed you on Saturday?"

"Duh. I thought you were pretty from the second I saw you freshman year. I also thought you were a total bitch. After you kissed me—I only thought you were a partial—"

Claire swatted him in the arm. "You were doing very well with that answer, but then you totally messed it up and now you've failed. I get another question."

John pretended to consider. "Let me see. Um. No. My turn."

Claire pouted. John bent and sucked on her lip. "If you put it out there . . ."

Claire laughed and swatted at him again. "That's cheating. You can't make it that hard to concentrate."

"Then you should stop existing."

Claire blushed. "Ok. That was very well done. And sweet. And incredibly sexy." She looked at him and ran her finger on his mouth. "What if I don't really even like you? What if I just think you're incredibly sexy and I can't help myself?"

"I'll learn to live with it." He licked her finger with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes got very wide. "My turn."

"Wait, John, that's not true."

"It _is_ my turn. No cheating."

"That's _not_ what I meant."

"Oh." He pretended to think back. "OK, got it. It is true that I could learn to live with you thinking I'm incredibly sexy. We all have our crosses, you know? My turn."

"_John,_ wait one second. Seriously. I don't just think you're sexy. I—You can be such a jerk and I like you _so much._"

John had to bend over to kiss the tip of her nose. "Now see, if you call me a jerk, that's like, a normal day, but if you say you like me, that's just more proof that today instead of my life I'm stuck in some crossover episode of Fantasy Island and the Twilight Zone and I'm not ready to confront that yet. So no more of that crazy talk. My turn. Hey, no fair laughing that hard. You'll never answer."

"Ok. Sorry. I'm really trying to work on keeping a straight face. It's a whole project."

"Um. Keep at it. Try not to giggle while you're keeping a straight face. It works better. Don't hit me. I'm delicate. _Ow. _Ok. Here's my question. If someone, say, the local criminal element, wanted to spend more than 10 minutes with you in the course of a given day, how would they go about doing that?"

Claire looked at him like he was a total fucking idiot. "Well. They might start by something radical like asking for my phone number."

John really did feel like an idiot. Girls always just gave him their numbers. He'd never really had to ask. He started even to say that. "Oh. Us-" and then he stopped dead so it sounded, hopefully, like he was saying, "you." Well. "Youse." They weren't in some old gangster movie, though. Less than convincing. Worse than idiot. Double idiot.

Claire looked confused. "I what?" She looked at John who was looking at his shoe.

Her tone was suddenly very different, but John felt like it could have been worse. Claire said quietly and matter-of-factly, "You were going to say, usually. You were going to say that usually, girls just give them to you. You don't even ask."

John shrugged. He was having trouble looking at her and he didn't even know why. He didn't see how having girls like him was anything to be ashamed of. "What can I say, Princess?" His voice sounded a little too loud, a little to casual, even for him.

Claire had the same quiet tone. Not unfriendly, not angry, just quiet. "See, I figured, if you'd wanted it, you would have asked. So I didn't give it to you. I didn't want, you know, to seem pushy."

John finally looked at her, a bit sharply off that comment. "Sorry. Lost me. I waited for God knows how long in the freezing cold for you outside a drug store. I crawled through a fucking ceiling to see you. Which I also fell through. "

"Well. Doesn't mean you, like, want my number. It could be a different kind of thing, like a not talk--I mean, you didn't want to—never mind. It doesn't matter. If this counts as you asking, I'll give you my number."

"Wait a minute, I didn't want to what?"

"I said, never mind. Anyway. It's my turn. You asked, I answered. My turn."

John knew however much it may have sounded like the same game, the tone and stakes had changed. He could feel himself retreat a little. He could feel himself a little afraid and partly he was afraid because he knew he could be an asshole when he was a little afraid. "Fire away, Princess. _Game on._"

Claire took a deep breath. "Ok. Remember this morning? When you were saying all that stuff to get a rise out of Mrs Mantego, and you were making fun of us?"

"Yes. I remember that. That whole thing, by the way, was fucking funny and a highlight of my week. Is it my turn now? When you can't sleep from thinking about me, what are you wearing?"

"No, it's not your turn. That was just a—locator question. Like for context. And you don't get to be a perv all the time just because you know I like how you kiss. The real question is, all that stuff you said when you were joking. Did you mean any part of it?"

John could feel a different kind of adrenalin rush. Like the fight or flight kind. He knew really neither of them was an option. Not an option he wanted. But he knew he was so afraid that he could feel his hands trembling. He didn't know how much time was left this period. He thought there was probably enough time that he couldn't count on getting saved by the bell.

He shook his head back. He could handle this. So far in the last twenty-four hours he'd faced down his violent father, his abusive mother, and his jackass principal who had suggested he kill himself. He was sure he could handle a girl asking him how he felt about her.

He had no trouble telling her he _wanted _her. He was very good with anything to do with sex. That was just a fact. _Feelings,_ however, _good feelings—strong feelings_ that weren't of rage or pain or hatred. That was a different matter entirely. He was like a fish out of water. They were just not around a lot. He _would_ fuck it up. It was like he was afraid naming them, straight on, would be the end of them

So, on the other hand, just a little combination of fight _and_ flight might work here. It had worked on Andy the other day. Didn't have to be a switchblade. Just a strategy.

"Oh, c'mon, that's _boring._ You really want to go through that whole thing? Been there, done that. Ask another." John sounded completely dismissive and bored. He even took out a cigarette and started playing with it.

Claire's eyes narrowed. "Ok. Fine. Fair enough. You get a pass. In that case, my question is," and she paused, shook her own hair, and picked some imaginary lint off her sweater. "My question, John is, if you ask me out, how many other guys do you want me going out with, say, this week? Or, you know, just getting together with to touch tongues or whatever? Like this?"

"What the fuck, Claire?" John saw some kind of world of white between his eyes. That was so far from being anything he wanted to think about,, so far from anything he would have _dreamed_ she might have asked about, that it whited out his brain. Now he was really pissed off. "I thought you were so new at this. I thought you had, you know, _so much to learn._ You want me to take a fucking _number, _now?" John was pretty sure this was what it felt like to be shot in the gut.

Claire looked completely calm. "I am new at this. It's why I'm asking. You're not into this whole one guy one girl thing, but should I have, like, a limit? But really, this is more a question about you. How many guys do you want to imagine, like, feeling up my sweaters or finding out I like it with a little bit of a bite or that I also like it, you know, slow and smooth, with the tongue sort of like firm but slipperyvelvet? Would you be cool with, say, five or six guys with their tongues in my mouth like that?"

Holy fuck. Had she been fucking _studying? _John scrubbed his face in his hands. "Did I say _partial_ bitch?"

"I don't see why you have to get nasty. I was sold on the one girl one guy thing. But I have _so much to learn. _Maybe you'd like me to get caught up. Anyway. It's a simple question. If it bothers you, just say so. You can always go back to _my first question _if for some reason you don't want to think about this one right now. You can get back to me."

"Fine. Fine. Fuck you, by the way." He put his head in his hands again. "I'll answer the first one." He knew what this was about. He knew he'd asked for that. But now it was _with_ him. He _didn't _ believe in one guy one girl but now he had the image of random jock guys with their hands and tongues all over Claire was seared into his brain. He _hated _that image.

Ok. He needed to not be there with those thoughts. So maybe he could handle this, and get something else he wanted. He took a deep breath and turned to Claire with a caricature of patience and concern. Score one for the god damn _fucking _princess. Score _ten._

"Ok, now, Claire. I understand your question, but it's complicated. I don't think that should really count as just one answer, cause I'll have to, you know, go through each part of it. It'll take much longer. It's like a multiple choice question. So how about," and he made a big show of thinking, then a bigger show of coming up with an idea. He was backing away, putting distance between them with his tone and his face and his words. He knew it. "I know, how about, I ask a little question first, and then, we'll tackle your longer question, and call it even?"

"I'm not telling you what I sleep in, Bender."

"Ooh. It's _Bender_ now, is it. Ok, _Standish,_ that wasn't going to be my question. I mean, my fantasy's probably better than some old carebear t-shirt, right?" Claire was starting to look really pissed off. He didn't care. He liked it. This was something he was good at. Riding people. Pissing people off.

"My question also _pertains_ to our office escapades. When I walked in behind you, you were _already_ asking for this room. Which was, by the way, incredibly impressive to watch and gave me all kinds of delinquency envy. But my question is, did you really want this room for trig, and then I happened to come conveniently come along for entertainment, or did you want this room for something else?"

Claire looked _so _angry, and that made her look so fucking sexy that it was all John could do to keep from grabbing her again with a lot less restraint. Everything that came out of her mouth sounded like a taunt and a come-on at the same time. Like a fucking John Bender wet dream.

"Oh, do you mean, like, did I _plan _it? So I could like, _be alone_ with my secret burnout crush? Did I have this whole nefarious plan about my trig homework being _so hard_, and boys in my study hall ogling me, because, like, _that _would never happen, right? You want me to have it planned for you, to do all that, lie to the secretary, risk detention again or whatever, all so I could have a few minutes with the great fucking _John Bender?_"

"No," His voice sounded like it did when he was talking to the principal. He could hear it. She fucking saw right through him. He knew it had been stupid. It didn't matter. But he _hated _that she knew how bad he'd wanted to believe that and had called him on it and rubbed his face in it.

"Are you _sure,_ are you _sure _that's not what you wanted? Are you _sure_ you didn't want the prom queen being just a little bit bad, all for you? I mean, I told you I had trig homework, right? Did you maybe think," and she walked over to her bag and started pulling out papers, "did you think maybe I would even do one set of problems and do it a little wrong, maybe even spill a little coffee on it, to make it look so real?" She threw a paper at him. She made it seem like she was spitting it at him.

Bender looked down. The paper was covered with numbers and coffee stains. He looked at her in total shock. She didn't just look mad any more. She looked like she was about to cry. For the billionth time in the last few days, John Bender was suddenly a lot less sure that he knew what was going on.

"And then did you think I'd do those problems again, do it this time with the right answers, and keep it all neat and fresh so it would look like I'd just done it? So I could convince the secretary of my trig story? No. You'd never think of that part, because your fantasy would be like no one _cared _about getting caught, and if we did, I would have figured out how to get you a hall pass, too, instead of just sitting here, kicking myself for being selfish and worrying about you in there with Principal _fucking_ Vernon because you're so badass that you have to get yourself in trouble again, just to show off, like no one would _care_ that he's such an asshole to you that there's clearly something _wrong, _was _that_ part of your fantasy, too, that I would sit here worrying about you and feeling bad I couldn't help you while you decided to show me that you can make me wait for you too?"

John was now in total fucking panic mode. He had just gotten pretty much everything he wanted. And more. He was getting that fucking raw emotion, no bullshit, same he'd gotten on Saturday after pressing her so hard. And she had, she _had _wanted to see him so bad she'd planned something. Except Claire was shaking, and tears were running down her face, and she had once again completely surpassed any kind of lame fantasy he had because his were about naughtiness, and desire, but that kind of _caring,_ that kind of worry that she might have let _him_ down, was so far from being a part of his life that he couldn't even get his mind around it. No one _ever_ worried about letting John Bender down. And if he had that feeling, he could fucking lose that feeling, and it would be worse than before.

And now on top of it she was _throwing _things at him, and throwing _guys_ at him, the image of _guys _crawling over her that had never bothered him about anyone in the past and right now was making him _blind_ with rage. And here she was, pinning him to a fucking corner, making _him_ raw and exposed and all those things he was so good at doing to her, to all of them, she was giving it back as good as she got. He wanted to _kill_ her and he wanted to _fuck_ her and he wanted to sort of fall down at her feet and beg for forgiveness at the same time.

He'd just been staring at her for so long that she'd turned from him and started putting some books in her bag.

This clearly couldn't end here.

"Wait, _Claire._ That was _my _answer. Now it's time for _your_ fucking answer, right? Come over here. Period's almost over, and we might need a little privacy. I warned you, right, it's a complicated answer." He was in her face and she was backing up, fascinated and angry and a little afraid. She turned her back on him and stalked to the back of the room. She had her back up against the wall in a little alcove made by a metal closet. She had her arms crossed.

"You want to know if anything that I said when we were _playing_ with the secretary was _for real__—_if I meant any of that _bullshit, _right?. You want to know if I'm so _out of control _over you? You want to know if the other girls are "out of luck" because I'm just "that crazy about Claire Standish?" Every word out of his mouth sounded like a weapon. Like he'd never heard anything so _stupid_ in his life.

"Stop. Please. Please don't."

"But you _asked,_ Claire, you didn't want to be pushy but you _pushed, _didn't you? And the rules are, you get an _honest answer. _Whether you want it or not."

Claire was clearly trying to breathe without crying, clearly trying not to show how much this was getting to her. That trying made it show more. Bender was beyond caring. He _wanted _to get to her. He wanted to get to her more than anything in his life. He didn't just want to touch her sweater. He wanted to touch her from the _inside_ and he didn't care if she bruised. It would be like evidence he'd been there.

"So, you wondered if maybe some of this was true: like, I'm so gone over you that I break into a run at the sight of you, just at the thought I could see you for a minute, because I wanted to see you that fucking bad and I couldn't figure out a way, because like you say, I'm not so smart? I'm not so smart, and I see you in the office and it's all I can think about, I could stand close to you without your little friends that you care so much about right there looking, so I run _into_ the principal's office, the same principal who has such a fucking hard-on for grinding me down that he'll risk his job just to threaten me and give up every weekend from now til _summer_? You wanted to know if maybe _that _part was true? Or I know. You want to know if maybe, those _other _girls, like the girls in my _wallet, _if they really are all out of luck because all I can think about is you? Is _that _it? Did you want _that_ so bad? Is _that _the part you wanted to be true in that bullshit?"

John shook his head as if to shake the absurdity of it away. He came right up into Claire's face so only inches separated then. He put a hand on either side of her body and leaned into it without touching, like before. He spoke very quietly but with incredible venom. "Let me tell you just which parts of that _pathetic _joke were true. I'll whisper it to you. Listen carefully. It's very complicated."

"John, stop. Please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—It was just stupid. I just wanted—"

"Shh. Claire. It's not your turn." John could hear his voice sounding a little like a psychotic nursery school teacher but he didn't care. He knew he had her. He knew she would _hear_ him. "You had your turn. You have to listen now. Listen carefully. I'm going to explain exactly what part of that I meant."

His entire body was shaking. He wasn't sure he could do this. He had to. Hell, he'd already told her. He'd told her without knowing he even felt it. He'd just told her with an out. He'd told her like the wuss he was, like a joke he could laugh off.

John leaned further into Claire. He brushed her hair away and then he breathed in so he could remember her perfume, her shampoo, her fucking bubblegum lip gloss. In case this was not quite what she had in mind, after all. In case he never got here again. Because there really wasn't any backing out now. He put his mouth up against her ear and said in a low voice, softer than a whisper but still vibrating around her neck and ear, mingling with his breath and the way he touched her hair, so she could hear,

"Every. Fucking. Word."


	8. Chapter 8

Let me go on, like I blister in the sun  
Let me go on, big hands, I know you're the one.

--Violent Femmes

The second John said it, the second he told Claire everything she had even dared to imagine she wanted to hear, told her in three words, one of them obscene, after having prepared her for the worst, and giving her the worst, taunting her for her feelings, for what seemed like naïve or stupid hope, to the point where she wanted to die right there—the second he said it, he pushed himself away from the wall and from Claire and stormed out of the room. She started to call to him. He silenced her with a hand held up, suspended in the tension, without even turning around to see her face. He tore some papers from the wall on his way out. She heard the door slam.

Clarie took a deep breath and sank down onto the floor. She banged her head against the wall. It felt better. She did it again. It didn't totally quiet the ghosts of his hands or his tongue on her or the echo of his breath in her ear, but it helped.

"That went well," she said aloud to the empty room.

What had he said? Fantasy Island meets Twilight Zone. He wasn't far off.

Claire couldn't even begin to figure this out, but she did know a couple of things. That it had been one of the best and worst half-hours of her life. That it was all because of John Bender. That her life was irrevocably changing moment to moment, that she was powerless to stop it. That she didn't want to stop it, that she just wanted to keep going and going. That any holding back she did was out of fear, a fear not that she might go too far but that John Bender would pull back first and leave her falling through space, alone and unanchored in want..

She'd learned he _really did _like her _a lot._ The thought made her dizzy. She thought maybe that was what passion was, what she'd just seen. What she'd just felt.

She'd learned a few other things too. How to use cashmere to best advantage. How to use teeth in kissing. How to drive someone practically to the point of breaking.

She hadn't meant to learn that one. She wasn't even sure she'd been driving the whole time. She closed her eyes.

She'd learned she'd probably always show John Bender more of herself than she set out to. She learned it might be a little dangerous, if exciting, to push John in a direction he didn't want to go in—but it might be, she also thought, that the really dangerous part came from pushing him in a direction he _did _want to go in.

She hadn't learned, but she suspected, that at least half of that shuddering frustration and resentment and rage she'd seen in him just now was directed not at her but at himself.

But the tenderness? She smiled. She was still shaking and even though her face was still wet with tears he'd forced out her eyes, he was still forcing the smiles out too. He'd kissed her nose. He'd stroked her cheek. He'd known _exactly _where and how and why and how much to touch her. He'd made her feel like a sex goddess instead of a girl on her third real kiss. He looked at her, again and again, like she was Christmas morning. But not, she realized again, any Christmas morning he'd ever had.

That was the problem. That barely contained—or not contained—rage, and what felt like that searing contempt. Some of it was fear. She knew that. She had the same impulse. Some of it really was for her—maybe she had even earned it. But a lot of it was for himself. She was just there.

The kindness and the surprising sweetness, though, John was not getting any of that. Not from himself. Not from his family. She wasn't sure he ever had, not where it really mattered. Was it any wonder he didn't know what to do with it when it turned up?

Claire looked around at the beige walls and the tired posters of scenes from Greece and Rome, interspersed with mammoths and arrowheads. She decided, right there, that she wanted in for the long haul. Someone had to keep hold of the possibility, the _fact, _that John Bender was, like her, seventeen years old and that his life's ticket was _not_ yet written.

She was changing. He might be the catalyst, what sparked her, but she was deciding to change and making it happen. He could too. Look at Allison. Look at Andy. They could change, a little, and still be themselves. They could be change to be _more_ themselves than before. She—they all, the whole Breakfast Club—they _had_ to keep reminding John that Dick Vernon, his father, his mother, were wrong. That his rebellion was _not_ meaningless. The trick with John was to convince him that he needed to change _less_, not more, than he thought.

Claire was also sure one of the things she could do for John Bender was to stand up to him. John could stand up to anyone. He sure as hell could stand up to her. But he needed some standing up to himself. Being stood up to was different, she thought, from being ground down. Standing up to someone was saying, I'm your equal but was also saying, "you're_ my_ equal." She was _sure_ John needed some reminding of that one.

But was he really saying that to her? did he think they were equals or did he still think she was ridiculous? Was that why he seemed _so_ pissed off about liking her so much? Or was he just pissed off that she'd made him say it?

Claire found it possible that he was confused. He was certainly confusing. Trigonometry was really easy compared to John.

She wasn't saying hi to him in the halls. But he wasn't saying hi either. Was it giving her space? Or taking it for himself? And forget about walking down the halls together, his words echoed, because that was _never_ going to happen.

She wasn't even sure they were speaking. But she was pretty sure, _pretty sure, _that they would be. Because otherwise, she would probably die.

How could she feel like she would die if someone didn't speak to her and then _not speak to him_ in front of any other person? Even the things that had been so clear in her mind two minutes before now seemed to be swirling.

And everywhere there was the feeling of John's hands on her, on her skin, over her sweater, even under the sweater where they'd never been. John's hands ghosted places she'd only wanted them to stray, places she would have stopped them from going. She could feel the trail where he'd bitten up her neck and it was still throbbing. She wanted his mouth there again. She wanted her mouth on him too.

She hit her head against the wall a third time.

She had chemistry with John and it didn't seem to depend on his presence but she also had chemistry _class _with Ruth-Ann and her stupid copycat jeans and her glare and then she had Allison at lunch _and _after-school glee club _and_ prom committee and how would she get through all of that and the whole rest of the day with no possibility of John coming back and teasing her and calling her Cherry and replacing his own ghosts on her body with his real, warm, hands? How did people do this?

Lots of people liked boys and went out with boys and managed to get through a day in high school. Managed to get through more than one day. Of course, lots of people weren't going out with John Bender.

Except they were. "Some of them I consider my girlfriends. Some I just consider."

She didn't think he'd explained to them they were out of luck. This time, instead of banging her head against the wall, she put it down on her knees and pressed her eyes into them.

The jealousy thing. She was so jealous. She was so jealous of every single girl in that wallet. It wasn't fair of her. But there it was. She wanted him to feel it. She wanted him to know.

But that hurt in his eyes. That wasn't something she wanted to put there. Had she? She maybe had gone a little too far.

She sighed. If that was true, she wasn't the only one. Claire could feel the intensity, the controlled cruelty in his voice as he seemed to be grinding her feelings in the dirt. She thought of the way he had been shaking and accusing her of pushing. She thought of the way he'd left the room.

So she wouldn't push. She wasn't going to be that clingy, needy girl pressuring the guy to give up other girls. But one thing she was sure of. She wasn't going to stick around to be one of seven girls. She hoped. She was getting pretty addicted to John Bender. That was clear. Ok, so _this_ one thing she was sure of—if she _did _stick around to be one of five or six or seven? John was going to _feel that _too.

There. She was doing it again. She'd just resolved to stick by him, and within three minutes she was plotting to cause him pain for doing something he'd just taken pains to reassure her, actually twice that day, that he had no interest in doing.

This wasn't the easiest thing ever. And although she felt like she wanted to go far, she also felt like she wanted to stay close to home. That there was something to be said for the familiar.

Claire could use some more lipstick shopping. She could use talking French _Vogue _with Bethany. She couldn't lose everything she knew and felt comfortable with and end up spinning in the dark with or without John Bender.. Claire needed normal. Lightweight. Fun.

But then, John could be more fun than anything in her life. Not just the hands and teeth and tongue. She had so much fun with him.

She was heading toward the door when it opened. She jumped. Claire hadn't thought he'd be back. She wasn't at all sure she _could_ speak to him right now. She needed a break. She needed something just a little bit less—big. And loud. And exciting. And sexy. And angry at her right now.

When she looked up she found herself staring into the face of Brian Johnson.

As ordered, she thought.

Brian looked a little freaked out. "Um, Hey—is everything, you know, ok? Because, I mean, I just saw John a second ago and, he, like, punched out a locker. And he brushed me off with the back of his hand. I mean, he didn't touch me and it's not like we're best friends or anything? But the last thing he said before was that he'd see me at lunch. I mean, I realize it's only fourth period, or will be, so maybe seeing me was a little off schedule, but that seemed a little extreme, you know, like just because I said hi early? And I mean, I thought he looked pissed off when I saw him before. But—"

Claire looked down. "Uh-oh."

"Well—did something else happen, I mean, I don't mean to like, get in on your business—but it looked like he might be coming from a war. Except it's fourth period. Not war. And you look, not so good yourself. Did you break up? Wait, were you together?"

Half laughing in spite of herself, Claire shook her head. "I think it's going to be ok. No. And no. Not really. Maybe. Kind of. In a late night tv special kind of way. But here—I mean, John was—I think he was just trying to tell me he liked me." And she blushed.

"Um, Claire? That doesn't really sound like war."

Claire smiled and looked down, shaking her head again. "I think if you're John, maybe it does."

She looked at Brian. He raised his eyebrows, then slowly nodded. "You should have seen when I told him I was giving him lunch yesterday. I thought he was gonna flatten me. But then—he seemed pretty nice afterwards."

"You're giving him lunch?"

"Well, my mom packs extra." Brian looked down. "Yeah, because I tell her to. I told her I'm going through this huge growth spurt. But don't tell him. I just thought. He seemed to like my lunch, you know, the food groups? I mean, he could buy lunch. I think. But it isn't the same as having, someone make it, you know?"

Claire nodded. "I do. My mom isn't actually a sushi chef. Brian. I won't say anything. But I don't think you have to bring him lunch to get him to be your friend. I think he really likes you. Weird as that seems."

Brian smiled. "I know. I mean, that's why I do it. Because I don't have to. But don't tell him. I don't want him to feel like he has to tell me he likes me. I mean. After what I just saw, I think I'd really rather not.."

"Understandable." Claire smiled and touched Brian's arm. "C'mon. We'll be late."

They walked to the door, which opened practically into Claire's face. And behind it was Principal Vernon. He folded his arms.

"Miss Standish. Mrs Mantego tells me you were supposed to report to her about halfway through the period."

"I know, Mr Vernon, and I am _so sorry._ But this trig took me way longer than I thought, I got stuck and I just _had_ to finish."

"Really. Well, let's see it. And as for you, Brian. You didn't have any cause to be here at all."

"Well. You know. I'm trying to help Claire. You know, it _is _after the bell, and Claire told me, we have French together, that she'd um, be here. Working. On trig. So I, stopped by to see if I could look it over for her, before fifth period. Um, the one after this next period. Sir."

Vernon looked skeptical. "Hmm. Well. Let's see this famous trigonometry."

Claire nodded obliging and reached into her bag. "You see, this is the one that was, like, a total mess." She held out the no crumpled, stained piece of paper.

Brian nodded vigoruously. "Yep. Total mess. Literally and figuratively." He laughed nervously and then shut up off a look from Vernon.

Claire put her hand to her brow. "Well. I just got, you know, so frustrated. But I did it over, and look!"

She pulled the clean, white paper from its safe folder and gave it to the principal.

"It made _such a_ difference to have it explained again, and then to have some peace and quiet. Thank you, and Mrs Mantego too, _so much_ for the opportunity to learn."

Brian did a double take, and then nodded. "That one, it's so much better. It's like a miracle. Are you good at trigonometry, sir? Because you should really have a look. It's impressive."

Biting her lip, Claire looked shyly pleased at Brian's compliment on the trig problems he'd never seen. Vernon glanced at the papers and thrust them back at Claire. "Very nice. You're basically good kids, you two. I know detention isn't the most fun way to spend a Saturday—" and here Brian and Claire exchanged a look and nearly successfully suppressed a couple of smiles—"but if you made friends, you know, a little outside your "social safety zone," you'll thank me later." He smiled at them. "But as for that Bender character, trust me, you'll be thanking me for getting him out of that room early when you see where _he's_ at in a year or two." He turned to Claire.

"I know why you're upset," he continued. Claire doubted that. "I heard about Bender's little incident with you outside my office this morning. I may have made a mistake in putting him among you basically decent kids to begin with. And don't worry. I saw the damage in the library. I know who was responsible. I know what he was up to. But Claire, I want you to know. I've warned him to stay away from you. I made it clear that if he so much as looked at you, I'd be telling your father."

"You warned John Bender to stay away from me. This morning. You warned John not to even look at me. You mentioned my father." Claire spoke very calmly and quietly.

"Exactly."

Claire nodded and looked a little dazed.

"I think you shouldn't have any more problems with him. I just reminded him a little of who you are at this school compared to him, and who your father is compared with his—" And the bell rang.

Brian was standing pretending not to be there, but Claire could feel his sense of shock. She could feel speech sort of bubbling in him, but she shushed him with a hand. She looked calm, but she jumped at the bell. "Oh. Look at that. We're going to be late. Mr. Vernon. Do you have hall passes for us? Because this has been such an important conversation, and we certainly wanted to hear all you had to say, but—we don't want to be disorderlywandering around the halls."

Vernon reached into his pocket. "As a matter of fact, I do. Not that you need them if you have my word vouching for you, but we'll just take a minute to fill them out and. . . "

Claire daintily snapped them out of his hand and pulled Brian after her. "Oh. No time. And, you know. Brian. Can't be late. Too much pressure. You know." And she mouthed the words "Flare gun" and made the sign for pulling the trigger.

As soon as they were out the door, Claire pulled Brian around the nearest corner out of Vernon's sight line. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

Brian lifted his hand up to her shoulder awkwardly. "Hey. Claire. I'm really sorry. I mean. That _sucks._"

"It is just _so fucked up. _John's the one who helped me _see _all that as bullshit, and here I am, trying to get free of it and it just won't let him go." She sniffled. "Brian. Listen. That's just too much pressure. I don't just mean, like, he'll blow me off. I mean, like, he'll blow up. We've got to get Vernon off his back. It's not cool."

"No. I mean. It's definitely not. But I'm not sure—what could we do?"

"I don't know."

They stood in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Claire wiped her eyes. "OK. So I guess we go to class? Take the hall pass but try not to use it. We're not that late and I might need it later, ok? I'm going to think about it. You too. We'll come up with something. If you see Andy and Allison, even, maybe tell them. God, now I'm a total mess and everyone is going to be looking at me wondering why. I know you think that's stuck up, but you really have no idea—never mind. If you see John, please don't say anything, ok? I mean, he didn't say anything to me. No wonder he was so mad at me." Claire felt panicky. That was the _last thing_ she wanted John to have heard. From anyone.

Brian shook his head "Claire, you didn't say it. Mr. Vernon did. I think John, I mean, I think he won't confuse you with Vernon, you know? You look really different." And he gave her a little smile.

Claire smiled back, a little weakly. "That's good news."

****

After having damaged school property and then smoked a cigarette out the window of the boy's bathroom with the disabled smoke detector, John Bender had been able to go for nearly an hour without hitting anything. He also hadn't hit any humans, like principals or random dudes who looked like they might someday look at Claire Standish. That was showing some restraint. There might be hope for him yet. He even went to class.

But if he let his thoughts stray to the look on Claire's face as she had backed herself up against the wall and shaken her head and said "no, please, stop" as he mocked her for wanting him to feel the very things he did in fact feel, it wasn't so good. If he let himself remember the fleeting thought that bruises on Claire would be ok because they'd show he'd been there, he was rewarded with the image of his mother's face reeling from his father's backhand and it was worse. When he thought of Allison's prediction that they were all doomed to become their parents, he wanted to torch everything in sight.

So he tried not to think about those things.

In algebra he'd thought about equations that would calculate the slope of the line between Claire's picking out sweaters with his touching them in mind and her question about how many other guys he'd like to imagine fondling them That was a negative slope. If he thought about equations for the line between Claire's looking at him like he was a cockroach and deciding it was fun to put her tongue in his mouth, that was a positive slope. In fact, pretty much any equation involving Claire's mouth was a positive slope. Bender shifted in his seat. Yup. Positive. Almost vertical, from the origin up.

It was safe to say that this was the most fun he'd ever had thinking about algebra although it was not necessarily the most comfortable he'd ever been.

In this way, John managed to keep his mind from downward spiraling into despair and rage at the thought of principals or parents or dudes and sweaters or the distinct possibility that he had maybe just gone a little too far with Claire. Both in his own feelings and in the delicate way he'd expressed them.

But things had gone really well before that. Based on his well-tested girl barometer, he was pretty sure she was liking how things were going before he decided to become a prize asshole and fuck things up. He was pretty sure he could turn it around. If he could just get some clue about how to do it. If there hadn't been a fucking principal hell bent on ruining his _entire_ life inside and out of school.

He _almost_ managed to stop the downward spiral. But he was _not_ going to let that _prick_ fuck him over on this awesome girl who liked him. If that _prick_ wanted to fuck him up with Claire, it looked like he'd have to get in line. Behind John himself, who also seemed to be doing his best.

But it was ok, maybe. Claire had seen that side of him before. She came to that closet to kiss him anyway. She'd understand that even if he didn't say those things in an ideal smooth kind of way, he really did mean every fucking word. She'd understand that. She'd forgive him. Maybe. He could turn it around. He hoped.

For now he could think of the function of Claire not moving away when he was showing her something about rise over run.

****

As the bell rang for lunch, Bender was hightailing it for his locker. He had to have a cigarette if it killed him. He felt bad about blowing Brian off, and he was definitely psyched about the pudding and all, but he just couldn't face that lunchroom without a blast of nicotine. He should be getting a fucking medal just for not getting high.

But Andy Clark was waiting at his locker. Mild surprise. Did the kid wanna get high? If so, Bender might be tempted. He liked Clark and he kind of wanted to hear how it was going with Allison, for comparison's sake, not that he'd dream of asking since he was_ not_ that much of a girl, recent habits be damned.

"Hey, Bender. Let's blow for a minute. I've got my dad's truck."

John made the sign for smoking a joint with a question in his eyes. "

"Nah, can't. Got practice, you know? But I could take you somewhere you can, if you want."

"Nah, I'm not even in the mood. But if we could just blow for a minute and I could maybe get out for a smoke, that'd pretty much make my lunch."

"Cool. Let's motor. I just need to get off the school grounds—probably cause I can, you know? But I should get back so I can hook up with"

"Allison"

"Yeah," and he rubbed his hair a little sheepishly. "See, She's hanging with Claire at lunch and trying to look like that doesn't matter that much to her, but ," Andy shook his head, "it totally does, you know? So I don't wanna be, like, in her way."

"With Claire?" Bender was surprised but didn't show it.

"Mmm."

They walked in silence for a minute.

"Excellent use of fake nonchalance, man. It's impressive, really." Andy spoke in a total deadpan. Bender smirked. He'd gotten it wrong more than a few times, but it could definitely be said that Clark had his number this time.

"Years of practice. You're catching on though."

After a few more paces, Andy spoke again, "I think maybe they're plotting."

"Plotting?" Bender thought that sounded interesting. They'd crossed the parking lot and Andy opened his car door. They climbed in.

"They explained to me they had nefarious plots of world domination that involved a complex code of lip gloss."

Bender nodded. "I also noticed Claire's use of the word nefarious. I found it—"

"Nefarious."

"Exactly the word I was thinking."

Andy pulled out of the parking lot. He was trying very hard to keep a straight face. Bender looked at him and then found himself also failing to keep a straight face.

"Do you know," Andy laughed, struggling to keep control, "that Claire Standish and Allison Reynold are going lipstick shopping together and plotting against _you and me_ by purchasing and wearing and then switching flavored lip gloss?"

John's whole body was shaking. He managed a nod.

"It's like the fucking Love Boat visits Outer Limits, you know?"

Now John totally lost it, "Fantasy Island meets Twilight Zone."

"_Exactly! _Except on Fantasy Island you have that little dwarf guy that kind of cuts the hotness factor of two girls plotting lip gloss flavored kisses, you know?

John sucked air through pursed lips. "I don't know, man. I'm not sure anything cuts that hotness factor, I gotta say. I mean, it's so _fucking cute, _and like, they give the flavors little meanings, and shit. And it means they are _thinking_ about it, you know."

Andy nodded. "I know. Do you know they switch off?"

Now it was John's turn to nod vigorously. "It's fucking unbelievable."

They paused. Then Andy smiled again.

"And hot. Still. That dwarf is pretty gnarly, you know? I think he might detract."

John raised an eyebrow, "So you're saying that Captain Steubing gets you hot?"

"No, man. It's Gopher. Gopher gets me hot. I've got a thing for pursers."

"God, I'm so glad you said that. I thought it was just me, y'know?." And they both completely lost it again.

"Dude, could you see pulling over so I could have that smoke? I don't wanna stink up your dad's ride, but I had some kind of hellacious day—the part that wasn't so much about lip gloss, anyway. It's decent of you, you know? To get me, thanks, dude."

Andy pulled over. "No prob. It's kind of a relief to talk to someone who knows Allison—I don't know, a little differently from like, what she seemed like before. In her pre-verbal state."

John nodded. He took out a cigarette and packed it against his knuckle. Then he offered one to Andy, who shook his head.

"Sometimes at parties, you know? But Saturday for poker? I'll smoke cigars."

"Excellent." John inhaled deeply. "But what about Allison, will she ralph?"

Andy shrugged. "Better than even money she smokes one too."

John had to agree.

"So is Claire coming?"

John looked down. "Is the prom queen coming to my poker game? I highly doubt that's her scene. If she's still talking to me, I'll see if I can ask her."

"So, was whatever reason she might have for not talking to you part of the hellacious part of your day?"

John didn't answer immediately. Then he took a deep drag, and thought, "what the hell?"

"I don't know, man, it was so good and bad. My head is fucking spinning. So I'm up half the night, I've got this bullshit from my mom, and I'm out early. So fucking early, out front waiting for Claire and telling myself I'm not, but I don't even know how to talk to her or how to find her in school, ok? I'm officially completely girl retarded which is—trust me—not the usual state of affairs. But just to give you one example, apparently I was supposed to ask her for her phone number. So when I didn't ask, she thought, like, that I didn't want to call her or some shit. How was I supposed to know? Girls just give me their numbers."

Andy shook his head. "And you explained this reason for your mistake. That most girls usually always give you their numbers. Like seven or eight a day."

John rolled his eyes. "_Fuck_ man, I did start explainging that. I tried to stop, but she got it. Like I said. Girl retarded."

After blowing a couple of smoke rings, he continued. "Look, that wasn't even the worst thing. So this morning, I see her get dropped off, and she looks, I don't know. She's wearing this short skirt. I think she looks incredible. And I've been thinking about her most of the night and then she's there and she looks better. She gets out of the car and goes inside, and I take off after her. I see her go into the office, and I _run_ in there too. You know, Vernon's office? Me? Running in violation of school policy to be with the _prom queen _in the _fucking principal's office._ And when I get there, Claire's in there doing some act and _lying to the secretary, _trying to get some room by herself to do _trigonometry._"

Andy raised his eyebrows. "You know, that really doesn't sound like Claire."

"Dude, if you think the lip gloss thing is hot, you should see a prom queen lying in the office to get an empty classroom. I almost died. I did lose my mind, and then I come in and they're all what did you do _now_ Bender, and I—"

He broke off. Andy shoved him a little in the arm. "C'mon, man, what'd you do?"

John sighed. "So I come up with this whole act, and Claire and I are kind of playing the secretary together, and it—rocks hard."

"So what was the act?"

"Oh, like I'm _so crazy_ about the prom queen that I can't control myself and had to run through the halls just to see her, like I can't sleep at night."

"Ok. So the act was basically not an act."

"Shut up. And then, so, this was all pretty much funny as hell, and Claire's working hard not laughing, and then the secretary says that since I've "got plenty of other girls" and I need to stay away from nice girls like Claire."

Andy sucked some air through his teeth to indicate "ouch." "I'm sure Claire loved hearing that." Then he looked curious. "Wait, so how many girls _do you have?_"

Bender rubbed his head with his hand. "I don't know, man, I'm just—I mean, I'm not two-timing anyone. I just don't really do the boyfriend-girlfriend thing. It's not me. I mean, I hang out, they hang out, we're happy, it's mellow."

"I don't think that's really Claire's scene."

"Yeah, I believe she's, like, _intimated_ that much. But most _girlfriends _will, like, acknowledge your presence in public. Some of them, I hear, speak to you in public. Yours, I've noticed, _kisses _you in public." John sounded more bitter and envious than he'd imagined he was.

Without looking at John, Andy wondered, "Do you speak to Claire in public and she, like, blows you off, like she was saying would happen the other day? Cause she's—she's working on that with Allison. I can see it's a little weird for her but she's working up to it or something. It sounds lame. She talked to us in the halls. They're having lunch. but she's blowing you off when you say hi?"

John sighed. "Nah, I figured, let her when she's ready, you know? I don't wanna embarrass her. I can like, I don't need that, you know? It's ok."

"That's pretty cool. But I'm just saying, she might not get that, or she might have her other reasons, too. I think you can talk to Claire. And dude, I can see how it wouldn't be for everyone, and I know I look like a total and complete idiot, but I like the boyfriend-girlfriend thing. It's nice. But I mean, I haven't done it much before, either. It's pretty easy to get girls to go out with you if you're a wrestling star, you know? But I didn't really feel like I could talk to any of them. Plus, I don't know, I always felt like I had to be planning how to _get somewhere_ with them, like it was this game with a score card. And my dad—I don't know. It's different now. I like walking her to class, and then she smiles and is wearing root beer lip gloss. I guess that sounds pretty stupid."

"Incredibly."

"Thanks man."

"Any time. Take it from one who knows stupid, ok? Cause check it out. After the mostly excellent office thing, I get it that we have this plan that we made in front of the secretary to meet in this classroom, and the prom queen was all delinquent with me and dissing me at the same time, and it totally—it totally wound me up. We were on the same team when it looked like we weren't. I was totally sold. Then I have to go see _Dick _and feed his weird-ass obsession with me, but I don't even care, because Claire—whatever."

John was now starting to pace up and down a little. He looked like he might punch something. Andy's face got more serious, and he asked quietly, "What did Vernon say."

"He fucking—" John threw his cigarette. "He fucking—" He punched at the air. "I don't wanna talk about this, man."

"OK. I gotta get going anyway."

John didn't say anything. They got back in the car. John looked out the window, hard. He felt like he might lose it and punch out the window and then owe Andy's father, who sounded like a prize asshole himself, all kinds of money. He figured he was having enough trouble with fathers. He figured he'd have to find some other way of letting off steam. Without looking at Andy, he said quietly, "He told me that criminals like me don't get to go anywhere near girls like that."

"Are you shittin' me? He said _that?_ That's not cool, man."

"Yeah? And he said, that he hoped I didn't imagine for one minute that a girl like Claire was ever going to look at me with anything but disgust."

"Well, she did seem pretty disgusted _when you put your head between her legs while she was trying to cover for your sorry ass _ So you might wanna slow that down, you know? But otherwise, I'd say she likes looking at you plenty. _And_ she likes _you _despite the fact that—well, let's just say it's possible you gave her a few outs, if she wanted to get out of liking you, and she didn't take them."

John gave a half-bitter smile and looked down, picking at a hole in his jeans. "Well, I might have given her a few more today. And so might _Vernon,_ who also said that if he heard anything more about me and Claire, he'd call her father. Who also, he _implied knowingly_, might have something to do with my father. I don't know. You know, my father who in my _delusional lying fantasy life_ beats the shit out of me for looking at him wrong."

Andy pulled over again. He stared out the windshield in silence. Then, without turning one inch toward John, he said, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I said that. I didn't know, I didn't know you, I didn't know shit. And if you need to, you can stay with me, man. Any time. My dad's no picnic, but he doesn't hit me."

Without looking at Andy, either, John said, "Don't worry about it. It's cool."

"No, it's not. None of what you just said is cool. No one, _no one_ should have to put up with that shit. Not from Vernon, not from your father. And another thing. I'm gonna tell Vernon it was me who broke the glass up in the library. Cause otherwise he'll blame it on you. But you're not just—you're not just alone in that, any more. I mean, I know you have friends. But that day—I'll have your back, ok? All of us will."

John took a breath. "Ok. I appreciate the thought. I mean, seriously. But don't say a word to Claire about that Vernon shit. I don't need her having that way of thinking, like, made any stronger for her."

"John. You should talk to her. And you should know. Vernon played that wrong. I'm just gonna ask you, does Claire look like a girl who faces, I don't know, a lot of _opposition _in the home?"

At that, John smiled. He thought of his earring. That her father had given her. That she put in his hand in front of her father. And then kissed him in front of her father. "Maybe not."

"Listen. Claire Standish is a girl who gets what she wants. She is a really and truly teen princess. And she may be trying to . . . broaden her court with a few new faces? But she is a princess and if she wants you her dad will tie you up with a fuckin bow, you know? You might need to change your shirt when you go to dinner. And if her dad doesn't like you, her mom will, like, adore you. I give it to you in writing. I know how these chicks are. If you wanna worry about Claire? Think about how much you wanna hang on to your other girlfriends. Because princesses don't share well with others."

Now John was laughing. "No shit. Do you know what she fucking said to me? She asked me really sweetly how many guys I wanted her going out with _this week._ So she'd know. Cause she's new at this. And then she asked me how many other guys I wanted to imagine her touching tongues with. Using those words."

Andy cracked up. "Dude. You are in _so much trouble._"

"That's not news to me, man. I'm telling you, it never _occurred _to me. I can honestly say, I _never though that way _in my fucking life. It was just girls, you know? Plenty to go around. They like me, I like them, it's cool. They like someone else, it's cool for that dude, and there's always another girl to like. I _like_ girls. But not like—and now I wanna kill every guy in school. Cause they might look at her."

Andy kept laughing."

"_Fuck_ you, man. It totally threw me."

Between laughs, Andy sputtered. "How many did you say?"

"I'm not gonna answer that shit, are you kidding me? And to top it off, when I wouldn't answer that, she asked me how I felt about her, like, not in so many words, but that was what she meant. And me, in my girl retardedness, I was still so pissed off at her that I essentially backed her up against the wall, mocked her, swore at her and left her standing there calling after me. As a way of letting her know that I am batshit crazy about her. Which is why I'm saying. I don't know about the poker."

They pulled up at the school. Andy turned to him, tears streaming from his eyes. "Ok. Dude. A lot of other guys might try to say it with flowers. Chocolates. Something like that. Maybe you get points for originality or something."

"Yeah. Maybe I could get the school board to warn me away from her. For our second date."

They strode up to the school. "Listen. Clark. By the way. I think Allison is awesome. Seriously. Excellent person. No bullshit. You're a lucky guy. But you're also a standup guy there. I was gonna deck you if you weren't but I'm glad you saved me the trouble."

"Dude. You can't take me. I thought we settled that."

"Nah. I let you off easy. And now, you know, I can't mess up Allison's boyfriend. I'll have to settle now for cleaning your clock in poker."

"Dream _on_."

They made it to the cafeteria with about five minutes to spare. While Andy was scanning for Allison, John picked out Claire in about .5 seconds. She was sitting a the edge of a table, Allison was sitting across from her talking to some other girl John didn't know. But what got John's attention was the blond wavyhair falling over the collar of a Member's Only jacket that had some dude in it leaning over the table where Claire was sitting and talking into her ear.

John stopped short.

"Andy. Who's that asshole."

"Dude. This is a high school cafeteria. You're gonna have to be more specific."

"Wham wannabe. Two o'clock. With his mouth in Claire's hair. With his fist in my face in about seven seconds if you don't help me out here."

Andy followed John's hard stare. "Oh. _There's_ Allison. She's talking to Bethany. _That's _interesting. I wonder how Claire pulled _that_ off."

"Dude. The asshole. Who. Before I have to pull something off. Of her. Now."

Andy put a hand on John's arm. He shrugged it off. "Listen Mr how could I possibly keep track of how many girlfriends I have, you might need to chill a minute. Anyway. That's just Percy."

John did a double take. "No way. You're just saying that to make me feel better."

Andy laughed. "Percy Dale. Goes by Perce."

"So you're saying he's a fag."

Andy shook his head. "No, I'm _not_ saying that. He digs girls. Girls dig him. I know, I know, but it's the 80s, you know? What are you gonna do? Anyway. Not to worry. He's probably just talking to Claire about glee club."

"But you're trying to tell me that _Percy Dale_ from _glee club_ is not gay."

Andy laughed. "Perce isn't a bad guy. He plays tennis too."

"Ok. Cause that's so much more manly. With the white shorts and sweaters and all."

"What is up with you and sports uniforms, man? It's like a complex or something. Anyway. I think he said he has a duet with Claire or something, so they're probably just going over rehearsal times or something."

"A _duet?_ Fuck me." John ran both hands through his hair. One caught on the diamond in his ear, which slightly calmed him. "There is so much wrong with this fucking world."

Shaking his head, Andy fake punched him in the arm. "That's why we need you rebels, man. Catch you later."

"Yeah. And thanks for the ride. If you see Brian, tell him I'm sorry I missed him. I've gotta get out of here before I do something to get suspended for."

*****


	9. Chapter 9

I need someone, a person to talk to,  
Someone who'd care to love,  
Could it be you, could it be you?  
Situation gets rough and I start to panic  
It's not enough, it's just a habit,  
Hey kid, you're sick . . .

--Violent Femmes

____________

John stalked out of the cafeteria, but Claire studiously noticed nothing about his entry or exit. She wondered why she was spending so much energy not noticing John when what she wanted to do was to run after him, in front of everyone, and tell him that nothing and no one had any right to tell him who to look at, that she wanted him to look at her and only at her and that she wanted him to mean every fucking word even if it made him angry, even if it made him walk out on her, as long as he came back. But then she thought about how exposed she would be, how everyone would look at her if she ran up to John Bender, and how John would keep looking at her _and _at all the pictures of girls he carried with him in his wallet. Pictures that he carried in his pants pocket, near him, next to him, all the time.

So Claire compromised and didn't look at _him _instead.

Andy sat down at the table next to Allison and moved in for a quick kiss. He raised his eyebrows. "Bubblegum. Excellent." Allison giggled.

But nothing could really distract Claire from the entirely absorbing task of not looking at John Bender looking at her from behind her back and not staring as he stalked angrily out of the lunch room.

She smirked to herself and wondered how John had liked Perce. She wondered if she should put a picture of Perce in her wallet. Then she wondered if she could possibly work her way down to "partial" from the "total" bitch she was feeling like right now. She wondered what on earth was in John Bender that could make her feel so tender and protective and antagonistic at the same time. She wondered whether, if she found out, if she could market it as a drug.

Claire needed to be able to stop thinking about John for thirty seconds. She needed to give herself that much. Perce faded from her consciousness the second she turned her head and gave her attention back to her friends. John still hovered near the surface. Even if she wasn't thinking about him actively, he was still _there. _Usually staring at her in that mocking way that weakened her knees.

And that was when she wasn't even actively thinking about him.

Andy looked pleased to see Bethany. "Hey, Bethany, what's up. I mean, Wait, ça va? Right?"

Bethany looked at him and smiled, "Oui, ça va. Et toi, monsieur l'amant tout fou?"

"Did you just call me almond tofu?"

Claire and Bethany laughed out loud. "No. But next time I totally will. So, Andy, do you think I can really wear red lipstick? Allison thinks I can go much deeper and brighter. I thought I sort of needed pinks or light brown. I'm really excited."

Andy looked at Bethany like she was crazy. "Hi. I'm Andy Clark. I'm a wrestler. This is my girlfriend. I'm not gay and I don't sell Avon."

Claire and Bethany and even Perce who was still hanging over Claire's shoulder like a kind of pet parrot cracked up. Bethany said a little sheepishly, "Sorry, Andy. It's just your girlfriend has some really radical ideas about color."

"That doesn't really surprise me," and he kissed Allison again. "She's got some interesting thinking on flavor too."

Bethany plugged up her ears. "Ok, Ok, I did not need to know that." She turned to Perce. "Dude. We've got English. Let's book."

Perce looked reluctant, but he really had no legitimate reason to refuse to leave. He turned to Claire. "Well, OK, partner, don't forget that emergency Glee Club rehearsal—we have to go long this afternoon."

Claire rolled her eyes and nodded. "I know. I learned the song. It's pretty."

Perce smiled at her in a kind of oily way. "Maybe we could grab a bite after? My treat?"

Claire shook her head, faking regret. "I've got to get home. My parents are coming down on me hard since I got Saturday detention." Absently, Claire wondered how her intention to be a better, more genuine person coincided with her suddenly lying so much more.

Perce stretched his finger like a gun and pulled the fake trigger. "Then catch you later, and we can rain check on the dinner date next week."

"We'll see," said Claire, non-committally. She wasn't sure why she wasn't just blowing him off.

Maybe because _other people_ never threw anything away. So why should she? She thought of John and his wallet and her lips formed a grim line. That image was quickly replaced by the thought of John and Dick Vernon threatening him because of her and John waiting for her after school and John whispering tensely in her ear, telling her that he had really meant it about other girls being out of luck.

Claire felt again like she was completely losing her mind.

As Bethany and Perce walked off—Claire reminded herself to abase herself in thanks at Bethany's feet later—Claire turned to Andy with a look of intense purpose.

"So. How did it go. Is he ok?"

Allison and Andy turned from each other to look at Claire. Andy laughed. "Yeah, he's fine, but I'm not giving you the blow by blow, you know? We're not all girls at this table, Jeez. First Bethany asks me about "deep reds" and now you want girl talk? Do I look like I'm wearing a bra? But I can tell you one thing, he'd be a lot less fine if he'd heard you giving Perce there the "we'll see."

Allison nodded. "You should have seen the way John staring at Perce when he came in. And the way his eyes found you right away. It was like . . . amazing. Like magnets. And then when he saw Perce bend down toward you, I thought the entire cafeteria might . . . explode." She stopped talking for a minute and then pointed her chin and smiled in a secretive way, adding, "Which would have been . . . better than the alternative of it's still being here." She thought for a minute. "Except for you guys getting blown up too."

Claire and Andy both shook their heads and smiled. But Claire wasn't giving up so easy. "So did he say anything about me?"

"Not a word. We talked about the weather."

"Andy! You are _such_ a liar! Come _on._"

Allison squeaked. Her friends turned to her. She was grinning ear to ear. "What?!" Claire and Andy asked in almost total unison.

Shaking with laughter, Allison dropped her head to the table. Her entire body was shaking.

Andy was all over her. "Are you ok?"

Looking up, Allison tweaked his nose. "I'm _laughing! _ It's not an _emergency. _It's just funny. John did the exact same thing to me yesterday." She smiled a smug little smile and hugged herself a little. "I tortured him." She looked straight at Claire. "But in the end, I gave in just a little. I figured you wouldn't mind if he knew where you were going to be after school.

Claire blushed and nodded. "Good call." She whipped around to Andy. "See? A little betrayal is really important among friends. John will probably never forgive you if you don't tell me something he said."

"Ok, ok." Andy held his hands up. "Listen. I'll tell you this much. Dude is crazy about you, head spinning, knocked on the floor, can't get up and doesn't know what hit him crazy about you. And doesn't know how that works. Knows he kind of might have—been less than cool earlier. Vernon isn't helping him with that. Doesn't know you know what Vernon said, doesn't want you to know. Which is an understatement, big time."

Claire breathed out a sigh of deep relief. "_Thank_ you, now was that so hard?"

"Yeah, I feel like a total asshat. Look, there's a lot I didn't tell you, ok? And I didn't tell you anything you didn't already know."

The bell rang for the end of lunch and the three got up. Claire said in a low voice, responding to Andy's last comment, "That might be true. But it feels a little better hearing someone say it outside of my own head. I don't know—my head is a little . . . confused or something. It gets messy in there." And she looked up to Andy, then to Allison, "Does that ever happen to you?"

Allison widened her eyes and leaned in to Claire's space. "Guess."

Andy ruffled her dark hair. "It gets messy in everyone's head. You just don't hide it as much." As they walked out, Andy touched Claire's sleeve gently. "One more thing—Claire? Whatever it is you said to get back at John for all those girls? I think it might have worked a little too well."

Sighing, Claire looked down. "Yeah. Well. Like I said. It gets messy. Thanks for helping Bethany, Allison—you're really good at that. I think she was really happy."

Allison said in a small voice, a little shyly, "She seemed really nice."

"Well, at least she _can_ be. It kind of distinguishes her from some of my other friends—besides you guys, you know?"

Andy nodded in understanding. "Strange times, huh?"

They all three nodded thoughtfully, then parted ways.

***

When Brian finally caught up with John Bender after school, he was leaning against the wall outside the auditorium with a scowl on his face that Brian sincerely prayed was not for him. John heard Brian approach and looked up at him accusingly.

"They just keep fucking _going!_"

Nodding nervously, Brian agreed. "Yeah. Right. That's—I got your note but I couldn't find you where you said. Wait. Who? I didn't have anything to do with it."

John gestured impatiently to the air around him. "_Singing._ They're singing."

Listening, Brian concurred. "That's true. I do hear singing. It's, um, _West Side Story._ I think. Not that I'd know. Because musicals—who listens to that?"

"What a lame song. Make our hand—what? That sounds dirty."

"One hand. And then, heart. Make of our hearts one heart. My mother. Is the one who listens to musicals. Because I, would never."

Stalking to the fire door down the hall, John gave it a shove. "That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard."

Brian chuckled in a high pitched voice. "Yeah. Me too. I'm always trying to tell my mom that. But will she listen?" He laughed again. "So, um, did you want to see me about something else?"

John looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Um. You left me a note, at least, I thought it was you. Could have been another John."

Finally John nodded, rubbing his head. "Dude. Right. Sorry. I'm having the world's longest fucking day, and now there's this singing. It shouldn't be allowed." John punched the wall behind him with the side of his fist and looked very much like he'd prefer to be punching something else.

"So—"

"Right. I just meant to say, didn't plan to blow you off at lunch or earlier. I just—you have no idea, man."

"Sure. Right. No problem. But I might. Have an idea. If you, you know, told me. Like maybe I could help?"

"Can you stop the singing?"

"I don't think so, no. Anything else?"

"You have a principal muzzle on you?" John kicked at the floor with his boot.

"No—not yet. I mean, no. But—I, we—we all noticed—on Saturday, when we were in detention together, and we all saw you with Vernon when we were right here, so that wouldn't really be about anything that happened today, which could be a game changer for all I know, which is nothing, but then we all thought he was pretty uncool to you."

Looking at Brian quizzically, John was trying to puzzle something out. "You talk to Clark today?"

"Who, Andy? Um. Just this morning. Are you looking for him? Because I bet he's in practice, you know, with the tights and the—other guys in tights."

John smirked. "I should go watch. No. Wait. I really shouldn't. But you didn't talk to him after lunch?"

Brian shook his head, vaguely surprised. "No. I mostly don't. We have really different classes, you know?"

"A jock, not in differential calculus? There's a shock—" John paused. The singing had stopped, and he heard a voice that sounded more grown-up. "Dude, can you just look in there for a minute?"

"Look in the auditorium. Yes I can. Um, why?"

Off John's glare, Brian peeked in. "Ok. They're blocking."

"Blocking? Like _football?_ Someone's gonna _tackle _her?" John looked like he was about ready to burst in and tackle someone instead.

Laughing, Brian explained. "No, no, it's like, the teacher's adding actions to do with the song. Like, it looks like—" he watched another minute, "they—I mean, Claire and Percy Dale, they're starting off at opposite sides of the stage."

"Good."

"And then—they get closer, and closer, and then they end up together holding each other's hands over one another's heart—" he stopped after a glance at John's face. "But you know, that could change. It could just be, one idea."

"Like, his hand on her _chest?_"

"Um. I think it's just supposed to be, like, the heart. Like, you know, symbolic."

"I'll give him symbolic," muttered John. Then he looked thoughtful for a couple of minutes.

When he spoke, it was almost light-heartedly. Laced with fury.

"Hey, big Bri, can you do me a favor?"

"Um, sure. Probably. What—what do you need?"

"I just need you to go down the hall and make sure you are in sight of the office. Just stand outside the door. So anyone could see you the whole time."

"Um, Right, sure, um, why?"

"Better if you don't know. But if anyone asks if you saw anyone, you say, either no one, or you saw a kid, maybe in an orange sweater, run down the hall. Your choice. Go with your gut."

"Will—will I be needing a gut for this?"

"Don't ask. Remember. I trust you. Don't blow it. Now. Scoot, scout."

Brian made his way down the hall and did his best nonchalance impression. John shook his head. Disaster. Total disaster. It was ok. At least no one would be able to blame Brian.

*****

It was cold and gray outside again and Claire stood at the edge of the back parking lot talking to Perce and some of the other kids who'd been cleared from the building. She was shivering. After the fire alarm, she hadn't even had time to grab her coat. Perce was complaining loudly—whining, really—about fire drills and the stupidity of them. Perce's friend Buck Burton from wrestling dropped by to say it hadn't been a drill, it seemed like someone had opened the fire door—the one right by the auditorium, because he'd heard Vernon talking to Mrs Layton about the Glee Club kids and where they'd been.

"He was just, you know, seeing if any of you had been missing that time. Of course she said no. Like you would pull something like that anyway."

Shaking his head, Perce intoned, "Only a real loser pulls stuff like that. People who don't have anything better to do than to waste other people's time. People who just want to get in our way."

Buck nodded, but Claire didn't respond at all. She found her eyes drawn to a row of trees out past the baseball diamonds and bleachers, too far, really, to see. She thought she saw something move there, but then there was only stillness.

Buck was still talking, "But anyway, that dweeb Johnson apparently saw who did it, or saw some guy in an orange coat run down the hall right after it happened. So whoever did it kicked in the fire door and didn't even leave the school."

Claire had started at the words "dweeb" and "Johnson" and "fire door." And then as she listened, she could feel those butterflies starting to spread their wings and suddenly she felt warm rather than cold and she knew a smile was spreading across her face, she couldn't stop it.

Her gaze drifted back toward the line of trees. Now she felt sure she saw a figure near one of them, almost hidden behind it, but maybe showing a little on purpose. It was too far. She couldn't be sure. But she was.

It was true that she should be angry that so many people had been inconvenienced for such a stupid reason. She should be angry that anyone who had _no right_ was intruding on her life in this way. She should be angry even that anyone had gotten poor Brian involved, or had risked getting into trouble _again_ on her account, and she _was_ a little angry at that. But mostly, mostly Claire was deeply and deliciously delighted.

This, in itself, was a big surprise.

It was, in one respect, a delinquent acting delinquent. And it was juvenile. It was both things. But really, to her, to Claire Standish at that moment, John Bender setting off a fire alarm just to stop her from rehearsing her love song with Percy Dale felt like one of the most romantic things that she could even imagine happening. She thought about all those girls who were only getting flowers or fancy dates and she felt sorry for them. Just knowing John made every breath a little bit of an adventure.

She was going to do something for him too. Another delinquent thing. Lavender, maybe, her way, but John would _love_ it. Claire remembered the hunger and the hurt that had played over his face when it had sounded like she was making fun of his "fantasy"—that the prom queen had been naughty for him. That she had planned and schemed and lied to be with him. And the look on his face when he realized it was true, she couldn't even name.

Claire loved that John Bender was crazy about her. She just wanted to make it more.

Slowly, Claire realized Perce was still talking. He seemed to really like the sound of his own voice. And his hair, he seemed to like that too. She tuned in on the words, "so I just don't even understand, why someone would do that."

Punching his friend on the arm, Buck joked, "Maybe they just had to figure out a way to stop you from singing. In which case, I could relate."

Looking genuinely affronted, Perce retorted, "Hey—we sounded really good. Claire has a beautiful voice, and I'm classically trained." It was true. He did have a good voice. It was fun to sing with him. Claire liked singing.

But she didn't mind being interrupted for the right reason. "Maybe whoever did it just really didn't like our choice of music. Bernstein isn't for everyone, you know. Listen, Perce, I'm cold and I'm going to take off. I can't sing after getting this cold anyway—if you stick around, can you grab my jacket from the auditorium?"

"Sure thing, I'll give it to you tomorrow. Stay out of trouble so you can hang longer next week!"

"We'll see." Claire realized it was the same line, but she thought she had made it more discouraging this time. She saw Ruth-Ann walking out of the building just as she left the guys, and called to her. "Hey, Ruth-Ann—can you give me a ride just toward my neighborhood? I have to pick something up at the store for my mom, then I'll walk home."

Ruth-Ann waited. Then she spoke. "Maid's day off?"

Claire answered absently, "No—but you can't trust the help with everything, you know?" She looked down at Ruth-Ann, who was quite a bit shorter. "Cute jeans, by the way. I guess my pitch was convincing."

"Oh—these old things. _Our_ housekeeper forgot the laundry. I guess you're right about not being able to trust the help."

Claire smiled. She had been joking. Ruth-Ann wasn't. Then she stopped smiling. Maybe people thought she was really like that. Maybe, even, she had been really like that. Claire shuddered. She hoped she was getting better.

Ruth-Ann was driving a late 70s BMW. Probably the kind of thing that made her feel deprived, Claire thought. Still with the 70s model. Poverty is tragic. She wondered how Ruth-Ann would feel if she knew that Claire had turned _down_ her father's offer of a new BMW for her birthday. It was a Standish family classic scene. Her dad asked if his little girl would like a new toy and showed her a picture. Her mom had thought she was too young for that car. Her mom had thought _she _should get the new BMW and Claire should have _her_ old car. Her father said a two year-old car was not an old car, that the Mercedes was an old person's car, and Claire would want a convertible. Caire's mom said she noticed that the firm _secretary _was driving a new BMW, surprising on a _secretary's_ salary. Claire screamed at the top of her lungs that she didn't want _any_ car, and wouldn't drive one they bought.

And so, here she was getting a ride from Ruth-Ann. As they got in the car, Ruth-Ann asked. "So, what was up with you and that little skeeve Andy's with? Are you planning some big, like, take-down on her or something?"

"Oh, right. Like I would have time and energy to spend on doing something like that to someone who wasn't even—you know, a threat. I mean, last fall with Michelle it was different—she was _after_ Bethany's boyfriend. Not cool."

"You guys got her good, though."

It was true. At the time it had felt like a great victory, with Michelle in the bathroom crying her eyes out, completely shunned by all her former friends, Ruth-Ann included, everyone hating Michelle for secrets that mysteriously had shown up on certain locker-room walls in handwriting mysteriously like hers. Michelle _had said_ those things, just like she _had badmouthed_ Bethany to her boyfriend, and _had tried_ to steal him. But still, now that sense of urgency and righteousness seemed small and sad and Claire just felt bad about the whole thing. Like, they could have just stopped being friends with her—they didn't have to _ruin_ her, like it seemed to them at the time.

Bethany had broken up with the boy the next month anyway. Boring jock. Took Spanish not French. End of story.

Claire nodded. "Yeah, well, I'm trying to work on not doing that stuff, " she said thoughtfully, with an honesty that surprised herself and was probably not wise. But it was exhausting, always thinking politically, always trying to hedge and cover your bets—just to have a group that were supposedly your friends and to try to keep them from doing to you what you'd done to them in the past. Claire was also developing this annoying habit of tuning in to the John Bender channel in her head to see if her actions or words at any given time were bringing up the surprised and impressed smile, the sneer, or the bitter yelling from Saturday.

Unsure that this level of obsession with someone she had met four days ago was necessarily 100% healthy, Claire could still appreciate the irony that her newfound conscience had the form and face of the biggest delinquent in the school. But there it was. And it smiled as Claire explained, "I'm just hanging with Allison cause I like her. She's cool. A little different, sure, but she has a different way of looking at things. Like color. She can just look at your face and see—colors that look good on you. Things you wouldn't even know to try."

Sneering, Ruth-Ann muttered, "Like I'd let that skeeve get within three feet of me. She'd probably say, like, deep purple or something. Whatever. I mean, works for you, that's fine. How did you meet her, anyway? I mean, I know she's been around, but like, none of _us_ knew her."

"We were in detention together Saturday. For eight hours. Kinda gets you talking, you know? Or you go crazy. And whoever is there, that's what you get. Andy was there—and so"

"So that explains that freak show of a couple." Ruth-Ann accelerated with a little too much emphasis and nearly ran a stop sign. Claire thought she'd get out.

"Hey, thanks a bunch. The store's just right over there, and I could use the extra walk. Need to stay in the shape my jeans have learned to love, right?"

"Riight," Ruth-Ann said in a saccharine voice. "Well, kiss."

"Kiss," said Claire, getting out of the car.

As the car drove away, Claire added, "off—" but not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear.

****

When Carl the janitor came to remove John Bender from Government class the next morning, John was already in the middle of a terrible day and it wasn't even 9 am yet. He'd been out all night. He'd smoked almost a whole dimebag of weed himself, trying to get the thought of Claire Stanidsh off his mind just for _five minutes. _He'd laughed, and talked shit, and played quarters with warm Budweiser and crashed out on Skins' floor, and through it all there was Claire lying to the secretary or giving him lessons in cashmere or telling him she liked it with bite or crying because she cared so much about him or crying because he was being so mean to her and whatever scene it was her lips were always _right there,_ tasting like cherries or bubble gum or God knows what else she had up her sleeve and she was biting them and licking them with her tongue. And then asking how many other guys John might like to think about doing _just that._

And it hadn't stopped until he'd passed out.

After kicking his way out from _duets_ through the fire door and getting himself away from the scene, he had hung out by the trees in the back of the school, trying to catch a glimpse of Claire's red hair and to confirm that when she left she was leaving alone. By which he meant, without _Perce._

Then she left, she got in some fancy car with some fancy girl and she was gone, and then the cold realization came to John Bender that he couldn't see her any more that day, that he had never gone up to her and whispered that he _did_ mean every word, that he was sorry for hurting her, that he would do _anything_ if she would just promise him that he could look at her and talk to her and kiss her without having his father ever so much as hear a whisper of her name. Of course he would never say any of those things, but the thought that he couldn't say _anything _to her, that he still didn't even have her number, that he had wasted a whole day in which he could have seen her again and instead spent it thinking about guys who could see her any time, and he had traded that day full of moments when he could have managed to make her laugh or groan or moan or hit him or kiss him or _something_ that would let him know there would be another dose of Claire Standish the next day, and maybe the day after that, he had traded all those possible moments for this, for the part of the day when he couldn't see her, couldn't talk to her, couldn't make things better at all.

John sank down into the cold ground and leaned back against a tree. The bark felt rough against the back of his head and he felt like he could stay here for a while. He lit acigarette and heard the words, as clear as Claire had been right in front of him, "You can be such a jerk, but I like you _so much,_"

It occurred to him between drags that he wasn't sure anyone had _ever_ said "I like you so much" to him before. He tried to latch on to the "you can be such a jerk" part to give him a little bit of faith that Claire knew what she was getting into and would give him a break. He tried _so hard _to keep in mind that Claire had surprised him before and kept surprising him, never more than with the second half of that sentence. But it also occurred to him that if he couldn't come up with some way of not being a total asshole every time she laid herself bare to him and showed him _exactly how_ to hurt her, if he couldn't come up with a way of _not hurting _ her at those times, this was not going to go anywhere very good.

This worry, more than Vernon, more than Claire's money, friends, more than even his father, made him want to stay by that tree on that cold ground with his Marlboros and never, ever move again. He didn't know how not to do it. He didn't know how not to take the punch if someone left themselves open. It was like a force that drove him, it was the way he knew how to see that he mattered, it was the way strong feeling erupted in his life. Casual fun, riding people, sex, all of that he could nail and he could see Claire liked it and if they just kept it at that level, everything would be fine.

But that wasn't where they were heading. Claire knew it. He knew it. They could hang out at that level and make out and insult each other and that could be seventeen different kinds of good and hot but there was this _other current_ there that made it sharper and more intense than any kind of bite that only touched skin. He had never felt like this about a girl, or anyone else, he could do friendship and he was even good at it but this other thing, this thing that was so sharp and so soft at the same time, this thing that made him _ache_ just knowing she was out of reach for the night, much less more permanently—this was new territory for him. In this place, he was as much of a fucking cherry as anyone else he mocked for it.

That was the point he started smoking dope. He lit the joint right under that tree and then walked home with it right on in the open and went round to Skins and never stopped. But it was never enough to make him feel better about maybe having fucked up something that had happened to him that was so exciting, so much fun, and so, he couldn't use a word like _moving_ because it wasn't even in the limited vocabulary of his sarcastic, ironic, and self-protective emotional life, but he was searching for a word like it that would somehow fit in the contours of his world and allow him just to name how Claire had made him feel and what, as the hours wore on and especially in the cold dawn hours as he huddled blanketless on Skin's hard basement floor list, he became increasingly convinced he might have lost for himself.

And so there he was, sitting in Government class, feeling cold, and alone, and just _sad, _unable to even muster an angry thought after he had waited for Claire again, more obviously this time, on the front steps, but no Claire had come, and he had sought out their other friends and no one had seen her. He had thought of a way, to do something sweet, something she would love, that would make her smile. If he could just get close to her, before too much more time had passed. If he could just spend more time with her—

The knock on the classroom door had been a surprise and Carl's calling him out had been more of one. Carl showed the hall pass to the teacher. John's name was right on it. It was signed Dick Vernon. The teacher shook his head and John swung his boots out of his chair and slowly walked from the room.

It was a fucking imperfect world. His school was pulling him out of class, where he had actually _shown up_, where he was supposed to be learning about voting and responsibility and citizenship, and alright, he wasn't learning about any of those things, he was trying desperately to find a way to hope that the prom queen would let him talk to her and understand what he was sure to fail to say, but he was _supposed_ to be learning about those things, and instead the school was hauling him out of class at the hands of the janitor and taking him god knows where to be tormented by some asshole in a seventies' lounge suit. Probably back to the janitor's closet that Vernon had adopted as his own personal isolation ward for the hopelessly criminal element. Out of the society, and into prison. That was the lesson for John Bender today. That was where he belonged.

And sure enough, that was where Carl was apologetically heading him. "I'm sorry, man," Carl said, but not sounding too apologetic, "it's what they pay me for."

"I thought they paid you to clean up the school."

Carl raised his eyebrows, as if to say, what does it look like I'm doing. John got it, and couldn't even come up with any smartass response. And there he was, the person who thought maybe the prom queen would give him a second look after he treated _her_ like something to be crumpled and thrown away, there he was, getting crumpled and thrown away himself. It was what the whole school was telling him. Why the fuck was he trying to fight it?

He must have looked pretty down, because Carl tried to punch him in the arm, the way guys do when they want to comfort each other but don't know how. "Hey, chin up—I was man of the year here, I was, like, the head kid, you know? and look where I ended up. Maybe at this rate, you'll end up out of the janitor's closet."

John tried to smile. He appreciated the effort. But he was really just too depressed.

Carl tried one more time. "Listen, man. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. It's not as bad in there as you think." And with that, he unlocked the door, and shoved John Bender through it, firmly but with a friendly touch.

The small, airless room was so much darker than the hall the John was blinded. It didn't matter. He closed his eyes. He didn't want to see. He didn't need to see. He'd learned everything there was to know about this closet and the _prick_ who was no doubt going to be joining him in it on Saturday. He figured it was his new home away from home. Maybe a conspiracy to help him appreciate the loving home he had. Eyes still shut, he leaned back on the closed door and _swore_ he would not cry.

But then he heard what he probably had been brought there to hear. And hell if a tear didn't slip out anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

It could change with this relationship  
De-derange  
we've all been through some shit  
if we're a thing, I think this thing's begun

--Violent Femmes

________

He _should _have known. There was only one person who apparently liked fucking with him more than Dick Vernon did. But he'd had _no_ idea.

"You lost?"

The words set off a huge wave of relief and total shock and some of that wave must have leaked out of John Bender's eye, replacing the tears of fear and sadness and rage he'd been willing himself not to spill. He couldn't help it. He'd gotten what ultimately he hadn't been able even to hope for on his own.

He'd gotten a reprieve. John hadn't been dragged to a closet to be taunted and bullied. He'd been dragged to a closet to be taunted and . . . scolded, maybe, kissed, maybe—he couldn't even really imagine.

What he, John Bender, could come up with to imagine just didn't seem to ever measure up to the things Claire did. With him. For him. So basically, when John thought he'd learned everything there was to know about the janitor's closet when he'd been locked in here Saturday, he guessed he'd been wrong. He just kept getting it wrong. It just kept being better than he'd ever thought it could be.

His entire body tingled.

That innocent little princess girl had fucked with him so hard, and so bad, he knew he should be angry. Instead he didn't think he would ever, ever figure out how to make this girl feel good enough to make up for the stunt she had just pulled. He would like to spend a long time trying, though. He would like to spend days doing nothing else. Starting now. Starting as soon as he could start breathing.

John still hadn't opened his eyes. The adrenalin of the fear he didn't even want to admit he'd felt at being dragged for a private secret interview with Dick fucking Vernon was still coursing through his body mixing with the shock and the _happiness_ he felt and he was totally overwhelmed. He was leaning against the closed door, afraid to open his eyes, afraid she wouldn't be there, wondering if he was still dreaming, asleep in a stupor on Skins' hard floor, doomed to wake up and repeat the cold experience of his hopeless morning. Except his dreams were never this good, never this exciting, he was never, _ever_ this happy in his dreams.

He couldn't speak, but he could feel the laughter bubbling up inside him and he could feel his entire body starting to shake with it and he _still_ couldn't open his eyes.

"So, are we, like, not speaking, then?" There was such a tone of taunting fun in Claire's voice that it almost covered for the real concern that shot through her words. Not quite. There was something in her voice that was not quite calm control. Something that made John feel like he might melt into a puddle at her feet. But he could also tell from her voice that she was smiling.

When at last John did open his eyes, as they adjusted, the room did not seem so dark. The light which had been so dim and depressing now seemed soft, and comforting, and he could see Claire as she sat, exactly where he'd been on Saturday when she'd come to him, and he could see her face as she looked up at him with a curve to her lips that was wanting to be a full-on smile, maybe even a laugh, but she was trying to control it. She looked pleased as hell with herself, but there was something a little tentative behind her eyes.

John finally managed to open his mouth, but it was a few more seconds before words came out. Finally he managed to say slowly, "Well, let's think. You said a couple words just now. I, on the other hand, seem to be having some trouble." He stopped again as if to consider. "That doesn't feel like a policy at this point." He took a deep breath. "Maybe just a temporary disability from the shock. I hope it gets better because I have a question for you." His eyes couldn't leave her face.

She started to stand up. He hoped like hell she was going to come over to him because he still couldn't move. But she didn't. She leaned slightly against a filing cabinet and crossed her legs, putting her hands behind her back. The shape of her body was slightly hidden—instead of the soft sweaters she had been wearing, she had on a kind of oversized blazer with the sleeves rolled up, it made her seem more distant and a little tougher. John immediately wanted to get underneath it. He kind of liked tough on girls, but he wanted Cherry to come to him and be soft and lean into him so he could whisper in her ear about nothing at all. He was so tired. He wanted it to be easy, suddenly, and the look in her eyes said anything but.

Instead, Claire was looking at him with a kind of intensity that made him want to back up further than the door already pressing into him would allow. She adjusted her hips slightly and that made him want to back _her _up, hard, against a wall, and show her a thing or two about hip adjustment.

"Ok," she said, and she smiled a slow, sexy as hell smile that hit John straight in the stomach and went quickly lower, "Ask me something." She was wearing some darker shade of lipstick, almost purple, and also like some kind of fancy chocolate he could never afford and it made her lips look incredible, a little tougher, maybe. She didn't just look pretty, she looked _hot_, even with the blazer thing. Which nonetheless was going to have to go. As soon as he could make his body work well enough to get over to her.

"John, you're so quiet," she said. "Cat got your tongue?" He saw her tongue dart out to lick her lips.

But she wasn't coming over to him. She wasn't going to make this easy. She was definitely going to make this hard as hell.

So John crossed his arms and did his best to look down at her in a scolding way, but he could feel himself smiling a little around the edges. He couldn't help it. He was so fucking happy and feeling so good. All because Claire Standish was fucking with his head and obviously getting off on it and breaking rules he didn't even think could be broken and getting off on that too and it was pretty much better than most sex he'd had and he hadn't even gotten to second base with the girl.

So, as hard and _difficult_ as it was, being in a room alone with Claire looking at him like he might be lunch, it was such a radical improvement on anything in the last however long it had been since he'd last had his hands on her, that he couldn't even really believe it was the same life.

But he did his best to sound stern. Because she would get off on that too. And so would he. "So my question is, and you'll need to answer in a complete sentence, restating the question, in order to get full credit. So my question is, Claire, did you somehow get the school janitor to take me out of class so that you could illegally and _clandestinely _meet me in a broom closet?"

Claire looked down and bit her lip. John wanted to bite it too. He didn't move. This answer should be fueling his fantasies for about the next decade, and he didn't want to miss a word. He loved the whole fucking thing, the room, the blazer, even the waiting.

She looked up at him, a little shy, a little proud, and said, "Yes. I _bribed_ the janitor to take you out of class so that I could illegally and _clandestinely_ meet you, John," and her breath was a little uneven, letting him know she was not in quite as much control as she wanted to be, letting him know she was more than a little turned on herself, "in a broom closet." The word "broom" made her lips in their new color look like they were starring in some kind of dirty movie. "I also used the hall pass that I took from the school principal to make sure that you wouldn't get in trouble for these illegal activities. I think that should be worth extra credit."

John had had to lean his head back and breathe for a minute. "Holy fuck, Claire. Trust me. You have all the credit you are ever going to need." His head was completely spinning. His_ fingertips_ were turned on.

She said slowly, seriously, but with more than a hint of challenge, "I have a question for you, too."

At that, and in spite of everything, John could feel the flight or fight impulse rising. This one, this question Claire was going to ask, it wasn't going to be the same game, he knew it. He didn't even want it to be the same game. He wanted to get there with her, this _wasn't_ just a hot as hell sneaking around to make out thing for him. But any time it threatened to stop being that, any time it seemed like it might be about to go further, he was just about ready to fuck it up.

Wait a minute, he thought. Fuck_, _he thought, You _total asshole._ Do _not_ fuck this up again. Not only is she still looking at you and still talking to you, she has gone to so much _fucking _trouble for you. Don't do Vernon's job _for him_. He breathed deeply, but he couldn't stop the words. "That game didn't work out so well before, did it, Claire? Are you sure you want to play?" His voice was getting that bite, it was getting that mean on, he wanted to strangle it himself and be done with it.

Her eyes never left his. She swallowed. He could see all the planes of her throat move delicately and he wanted to touch each one of them with his tongue. "That game worked ok, John. You put your cards on the table. You just left without collecting your winnings."

John felt his breath hitch. "Did I—did I win something, Cherry?" Well, he didn't have to worry about his voice sounding too harsh any more. He sounded about twelve years old. He figured he must be determined to blow this any way he could, as many ways as he could. But actually, the look on Claire's face in response was telling a different story.

She nodded, but she said softly and a little sadly, "You did, but when you leave your winnings on the table, you have to play again."

Hardly able to breathe, eyes no longer able to meet the steady gaze of the girl across the room, across the tiny room and across some huge gap that he could not get across, John whispered, "Is this high stakes?"

"This one is for keeps, John."

John thought he might have nodded his head. "So shoot," he muttered.

And she did. "John Bender, are you ashamed of me?"

The question turned John's head away and back as hard as a slap. Now he really was going to cry. He changed his mind. He _hated_ her that she could hurt him that much when he'd just . . . _opened_ himself to it, hadn't run away, hadn't fought. She'd pulled a fucking John Bender on him, and he'd thought she was better than that. And now he couldn't even slap her back, with a good hard answer, an answer that would get some of his own back. All he could come out with was, "So that's it? You just brought me here to make fun of me?" He could hear his voice shaking. And even though it made him want to _die right there,_ he sniffled.

Dick Vernon would have been better, after all. At least he didn't _really_ care what that asshole thought.

He was never going to look at that _bitch_ again.

"John. Look at me."

He wasn't going to do it.

"I'm not making fun of you. Look at me, I'm serious."

John snorted derisively and curled his lip and _would not look. _He shook his head. "Right. Because everyone knows getting seen with the fucking _prom queen_ is the kiss of social death at this school."

"John, _Look_ at me. You said," and she paused, getting a breath, and he saw his opening, and he took it.

He whipped around and the words knifed out of his mouth, "_What_ did I say, Cherry, and this _better_ be good. Because last time I checked, I had spilled my _fucking guts_ to you, you _bitch._"

But the look on her face, her face already crumbling before he'd even spoken, hit him in the gut this time. He didn't know what _she_ was doing, but he was pretty damn sure _he _was doing it again, he was playing hard for the win in the wrong fucking game which was the surest way to lose.

And now that he _needed_ to say something, fast, his mouth was dry and he couldn't say a fucking word.

Now the tears were in _her_ eyes. "You _said_ I had all the credit I was ever going to need. When does that start? Or did you not mean that?" She sniffled, but she didn't cry.

"Cherry. I think we went over that one. Don't you remember hearing what part of what I said I meant? Do you need to go over that again?" He spoke in a deadly calm. Claire shook her head no.

John took a breath. "So yeah. You're credit's good. So is that it?" John's voice was clipped. "You just wanna write that one off? Bad joke? Ok. Ok. What's a joke on Bender? You're credit's good. This was all--" and he gestured around to the walls, the room, between him and Claire, "a pretty priceless joke."

"That's _not _what I meant. You—that's not even what I was going to say. And I _wasn't joking._ And I'm not playing any stupid game." Now she was looking down. Now she was struggling. A tear spilled down her cheek. And John was paralyzed with fear.

He _was_ doing it again, the thing where he shot himself in the foot and didn't care who got caught in the crossfire. And he couldn't move. He couldn't stop. He was _so stung_ that she would ask that.

"John, you don't really talk to me in public, and I know—I don't do that either. But you don't, you know? And at lunch yesterday, you didn't even—I don't know, acknowledge me, with a look or anything, despite—everything before, and you walked out on me, and when you said—what you said, which I _liked,_ but you sounded—like you, like _you_ didn't like it. Like you _hated _that it was true."

Hard defense. "Yeah, it must be tough for you when you're fucking coming up to me _all the fucking time,_ introducing me to your friends, wanting to hang out. . . Like you're so happy and proud to be with the school delinquent." He switched to offense. "How _dare_ you ask me if I'm ashamed of you? How can you be _such _a _bitch?_ You don't even know—"

He broke off. She didn't know. Not about Vernon. And she never, _ever_ would. And there he was, fight or flight, back again. A game he knew how to play to win and lose everything at the same time.

"I _said_ I wasn't doing that—talking to you. But that's partly—because _you're _the one, _John, _you're the one who said that I didn't need to worry about what people would say if we walked down the hall together because it was _never going to happen._ So did you mean _every fucking word_ of that, too?"

John was silent, shocked. He had completely forgotten he'd said that. It was so far, so far from the truth of how he'd been feeling the past few days, and even at the time, it hadn't been like he was saying what he _wanted, _just what seemed possible. And he'd been wrong again.

He turned his eyes back to Claire. He forced himself to look her in the eye, to look at what was there, and to let the consciousness settle over him that Claire Standish had thought, really thought and feared that he, John Bender, might be ashamed to be seen with her, the same John Bender who'd just yesterday been told by the principal, that he wasn't worthy even to go near her. It was like when she'd thought he might not like kissing her. He didn't get it. He couldn't get his mind around it at all.

No one was going to tell _Claire_ that she wasn't worthy to be with _him_. No one was going to be going up to Claire Standish telling _her_ that she needed to keep away from _him_ because she wasn't good enough. He realized that the only person who could _possibly _have put those thoughts in her head was . . . him.

And then he was ashamed.

"Get over here, Cherry." He sounded rough, but he couldn't help it. He was holding it together by a thread. How could he get it so wrong? Why couldn't he just make her feel good? He _knew_ he could make her feel good. Why did he keep making her feel like shit?

"No. You can't just order me around, and you haven't answered my question." Her voice was shaking.

John remembered that not only had he made her feel like he was ashamed to be with her, ashamed to like her, but that he was the first guy she'd ever even really kissed. He remembered that if he didn't find another way of dealing with this, if he couldn't find a way of making her feel _good_ again, she'd be moving on to the next guy sooner instead of later. It was on him now. She'd given him every chance in the world.

John looked up like he might find an answer on the ceiling. He had to find a way to unsay it. He had to find a way to say something else. Despite feeling like he was being strangled by his own big hands, he had to get something out.

"Claire, _please._ Please. Please come near me. And then I'll—fuck it, sweetheart, no, no, I'm not. I could never be. I_ swear to God,_ Claire. Please."

When he looked down, she was in front of him, looking up, her eyes wide. "Ok," she said.

He couldn't even keep looking. He would lose his shit. The wall above her head seemed safer. "I had—it wasn't you, Claire. Some of the stuff, that I—that's in my life—it's just not in yours. There was stuff yesterday you didn't know about. I don't want to bring you into it." He sniffed and wiped his face with his sleeve. "But I didn't—I wouldn't want—I was up so much last night, Claire. I looked for you this morning. I asked _everyone__—_I wanted to see you, so I could just—_._" His breath was coming fast. This wasn't working. He was failing.

"John." Her hand was on his chest, gently. "You answered my question."

He shook his head. "Let me, _please__—_let me say it another way. I'm no good at this, Cherry."

Claire took a shaky breath and started to speak, but he touched his finger to her lips and gently shook his head no.

She let her hand fall from his chest to his waist. She left it on his waist and looked at him, waiting.

He trailed his finger gently over her bottom lip and let his thumb stroke her chin. His hand moved up her cheek, his thumb smoothing the damp track where her tear had slid, his fingers cradling her jaw and moving back to lightly touch her hair. All the time he was looking into her eyes and hardly daring to breathe. "I'm better with my hands, Cherry," he muttered, as he moved his own lips to trace over on her face where his hand had gone, avoiding her lips but kissing her cheek on either side, twice where the tear had been. He felt her head lean back and she made a breathy little sound and he kissed her cheek again, and then her forehead and her eyes while letting his fingers stroke her neck, by her ear, along her jaw.

Claire whispered, barely audible, "You are good with your hands, John. But I also like it when you talk."

He moved his mouth closer to her ear and spoke again, moving his other hand up to the other side of her face to stroke her there. "I'm not ashamed of you, Cherry." He stopped a moment, breathed in, and remembered the last time he did that, he'd been being such an asshole he'd worried she might not let him near her again. This time felt better. "It's more like I'm ashamed of me," he was whispering right into her ear, and one hand was holding her hair back and stroking it gently while the other fell to her throat and stroked down to her collar, "but—when you look at me sometimes, it makes me think maybe there's a chance I'm wrong, that they're wrong—" and then his voice trailed off and his hands stilled, he just stood there, breathing in her hair and neck and not able to go on, it was too much feeling, not enough words, too many words.

And then she started to back away and John let her go and this letting go felt like it might kill him.

He sighed and looked down and the sigh had a shuddery feeling to it. If she was going to pull away after that it was going to be the one thing he couldn't bear. "Wait, Cherry—" and he could hear the desperation in his own voice as loud as if he'd been screaming.

Claire put her hand up to his face, pushed the hair back from it the way she seemed to like to do, and said, "I'm not going anywhere, I just wanted to—" but she stopped because his face moving toward her and he whispered, "Ssh, just wait, I still had something else to say," and then his mouth was on hers, moving over her lips which were soft and full as they looked, and then he opened to taste her with his tongue, they tasted like chocolate, just the way they looked like they would, and he felt a moan somewhere deep inside him, and waves of warmth and relief coursed through him as he took the collar of her jacket in his hands and pulled her closer and she started to move slowly toward him and then against him.

He felt her mouth open under his and her tongue lightly licked over his own lips to nudge them open. Then her tongue stopped moving and her entire body stopped moving, she held her breath.

"Bingo," thought John, and teased her tongue gently with his. She moved her mouth more fully open to his and tentatively grazed his top lip with the tip of her tongue, then the bottom.

She pulled back and stared at him open mouthed. He leaned back against the door and looked at her, he could feel his lips crooking up. This was good, he knew. Score one for the burnout. Maybe a few more than one.

"What's the matter, Cherry? Cat got your tongue?"

Her mouth worked. No sound came out. One corner of her lip twitched up, then the other.

"John. John Bender. You taste like _cherries._"

He shrugged. "What else am I gonna taste like? How often have I had a mouthful of cherry the last couple of days?"

"You taste like _cherries_. John."

"So? Today you taste like chocolate. Which is, by the way, a really strong choice. I'd definitely taste that again. If you're asking."

"John, your _lips _taste like cherries."

"Again—why the surprise? Are you slow? It's my favorite flavor—why would I want anything else near my lips?" He scoffed. "Were you a social promotion, Claire?"

"You bought—you're wearing _cherry flavored chapstick._ You bought _cherry flavored chapstick._"

And then suddenly he had an armful of prom queen and she was squealing that he was the cutest thing she'd ever seen and he was _unbelievable _and she was kissing him _everywhere, _on his face and neck and ears and mouth, she was taking fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him to her, then she moved her hands up to his neck and grabbed his hair and pulled his mouth down on hers _so hard, _pushed her tongue into his mouth _so hard, _and _so deep, _that he couldn't help himself, in two seconds he had her blazer open and down her arms and off and then his arms around her back, moving over the _fucking cashmere after all_ little soft _thing_ she'd been wearing underneath, and he was pulling her _all the way_ against him and she was pushing to get closer and moving her hips up against him and there was not one point on her body that was not straining to get closer to his.

So. _Good _idea.

After a minute she let go and leaned back a little and he let her move away but still kept his hands on her so their hips were slightly touching. A break was ok. He was breathing very hard. And he wanted to see her face.

She looked starry eyed. She smiled at him and took one of his hands and put it to her lips. "So that was the best thing you could possibly have _ever_ done. And you were wearing that the entire time."

"My lips get chapped. It was the only flavor they had. No big deal."

"Liar."

John chuckled. "Well. It was the only flavor they had at the third store I went to. But still, not technically a lie."

"You're completely incredible. Does anyone else know how adorable and sweet you are?"

"No, but give them time, I only bought it this morning."

She dropped his hand and swatted him. "Totally inappropriate comment but you have built up some credit."

"Sorry, Cherry, I was only teasing. No one knows I'm adorable and sweet except for you and Dick Vernon."

Claire started shaking with laughter which meant that her body was rubbing up against his in a very pleasing way.

"Dick, by the way, is going to be very jealous that I'm in here with you. He kind of thinks of this as "our" little room. We should make sure he doesn't find out."

John was still joking but Claire stopped laughing and looked up at him with serious eyes. "That's right, that reminds me, we don't have all the time in the world, so we should probably get on with the lesson."

Smiling, John leaned in for a kiss. "I love learning." He kissed her slowly and let her go and licked his lips. "Mmm. Chocolate covered cherries."

Claire pushed him away a little firmly. "John. Don't distract. It's time that you learned that in some weaves, cashmere feels slightly different on the bottom side near the skin from the way it feels on the top, on the part everyone sees.

John felt his eyes get very wide as his breathing completely stopped.

"Now. This is a lesson that might have to last over several sessions. And if you don't remember to breathe, you may pass out and we'd have to start over the next time. There. That's better. We'll start from the back. I don't think we'll get farther than that today. Is that clear?"

John nodded. "Crystal. You're the boss."

Claire tossed her head. "Correct. Now. Mr. Bender. It seems to me you just had ample hands-on experience with the outside of this particular item. So why don't we just start with you," and she took a breath, which trembled and made John's heart ache in an entirely new way before she continued, "with you putting your hands underneath the shirt."

John tried to smile. "You can't just order me around that way."

"Sorry, that was rude. _Please_, John, put your hands up my shirt. In the back."

"_God_ knows I wish I had a fucking tape recorder, because that, what you just said, was so _fucking sexy_ that I could make millions as a porn producer, _right now._ Are you trying to kill me, Claire?"

"No, but that might be an added side benefit I could live with—unless you shut up and do as you're told."

Tracing the bottom of the skimpy sweatery thing she was wearing, John slowly worked his fingers underneath and touched the hidden skin on Claire's body for the first time. It felt incredible, warm and smooth, and he only had the tips of his fingers against her. He felt her sharp intake of breath. He stopped, suddenly worried.

Her voice trembled and was full of breath as she touched his face and softly said, all pretending gone, "You can touch me a little more than that. If you want."

"Trust me. I want to touch you enough that it could be a full time job." And with that, he brought his hands up under her sweater, which felt so soft on the back of his hands, and her skin felt so soft on the palms of his hands, and he was glad he'd taken his gloves off that morning so that nothing was coming in between him an this _incredible_ feeling. "Holy fuck, Claire. Do you know how good you feel?"

Claire managed a smile. "Not really. I can't really feel my own back up." She kissed his jaw, then his neck, as his hands roamed over her back, down around the sides of her waist, then back up to press her more fully into him. She murmured into his neck. "I only know how good you feel doing it."

She leaned back a little and he stopped. "No, you leave your hands there. I just want to see your face while I ask you a few follow up questions and add a few points. First. How many other guys do you think I've let put there hands up my shirt, either from the front or the back."

"Oh, _fuck_ Claire, don't start with that."

"Answer the question. How many?"

"How the fuck would _I_ know? Jesus, Claire, you wouldn't like it if I—"

"That's right, I wouldn't. Because you would probably lose count. But this is a different question. So how many? Take a deep breath. You can get this. You're not a _social promotion,_ are you?"

"I don't know. Five." John couldn't think because it felt so fucking bad to think about but he couldn't move his hands either because they felt so fucking good where they were.

"Wrong answer. The correct answer is one. What's his name?"

"It sure as _hell_ better not be Percy _fucking_ Dale," growled John.

"Wrong again. His name is John Bender, idiot."

John felt a huge breath of air escape him as he let his head drop down. "Ok. You're right. I'm an idiot. God, I'm sorry. Claire, you make me fucking insane. How do you _do_ that?"

"Maybe it's the lip gloss. Anyway, the important point is, that you're only touching me there because _I said it's ok._ Actually, I asked. Actually, you made me say please, for which you will someday pay dearly."

"_I _said please earlier, do you think that happens every fucking day?"

"No, I just assumed hell had frozen over. But you're distracting me again. The point is, that _I _get to decide who touches me, and where, and I decide that based on the criteria of _who I want touching me,_ which is you, and that is the _only criteria there is, _and so far the only person who has ever met my criteria has been _you._ I make the rules._ I'm_ the boss of who touches me. _No one_ else has thing one to say about it."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. She was telling him these incredible things that he couldn't even _dream_ of hearing from her. But there was something else, something that caught at him and kept him from getting what he wanted out of the feeling of Claire saying things like "who I want touching me" together with "you" and "only" and "ever." It would be easy to just let those float around in his mind, let them float him right out of the room, somewhere to some heaven made up of soft lips and sweaters and tongues . . . but there was this other thing.

It took him a minute to figure it out. Then he wanted to hit something. _She knew._

He moved his hands off her and let himself fall against the door. His hands balled into into fists. "Clark fucking told you. He told you what that _asshole_ said, didn't he. I should have _fucking_ known."

Now, and again, he _was_ ashamed. And now she felt _sorry_ for him. _That's _what this was about. Andyhad betrayed him, probably as some kind of joke, or who knows, maybe thinking he was being nice, and now Claire _pitied_ him, maybe even felt guilty. And that's what this was about. He badly needed to punch many things, but he didn't need to do that in front of Claire, who was only trying to make him feel better.

He had to get out of there. He had to turn his back on this right now, no matter how hard it was. He had to go.


	11. Chapter 11

Special favors come in 31 flavors  
We're out of mints  
Pass the lifesavers

--Violent Femmes

___________________

John turned toward the door to go. But he must have been turning slower than usual, because he had time to hear Claire say softly, in that quiet, calm voice he was learning to take seriously, "Don't walk out on me twice in two days."

No threat. No or else. No ultimatum. No guilt. That's what another girl would have done. That's probably what he would have done. He took a beat. He turned to look at her.

He wasn't going to lash out at Claire again. Not now. He wasn't going to do that. But he also wasn't going to stay there and watch her pity him when what he wanted to see, what he thought he _had_ seen, was something so different from pity.

He tried for a shrug.. "Claire, so Andy told you, you felt bad—cool, ok?. But it puts such a different spin on things." He tried not to make that sound venomous. "I just need some time." To punch things, he added to himself. And people. But he thought he sounded pretty even keel.

Maybe he didn't even need to turn his back for good. Just get some of that _cool_ back, some perspective. Put some distance and some people's fucking corpses between him and this scene. Then maybe he could come back, she would let him kiss her some more in store rooms. It would be ok. He'd carry her picture in his wallet and never throw it away. "Just some time. Maybe we can hang out later. It's cool." But he felt his fists clench tighter and he was pretty sure his voice wasn't quite pulling off the detachment he was aiming for.

Claire shook her head no. "That's not what you need." She took one of his fists in her hand and held it. He let her. He couldn't help it. He liked being touched by her _so much._ It would be _so hard_ to walk away from.

She rubbed his knuckle softly in circles until he could feel himself relax just a little bit. "John. You're wrong. Andy didn't tell me. _Vernon_ did_._"

John swallowed. He felt sick. He didn't understand anything that was happening to him, why Dick Vernon couldn't leave even one tiny corner of his life unfucked. Why he couldn't, either. He'd walked out on this girl, this amazing girl who could have anyone she wanted but wanted to learn to kiss on_ his_ fucking tongue and _liked_ him, who wore sweaters she thought would make him want to touch her like he needed even a _tiny_ bit of help with that, and he'd walked out on her and Dick Vernon had walked in.

He didn't want to cry in front of this girl, who was looking at him with eyes so serious and so kind that one half of him pretty much never wanted to leave where he was at that minute and the other half was yelling at him to get the hell out, that he was setting her up and setting him up, and anything with Dick Vernon not to mention John Bender involved in it could only come to shit. But she kept rubbing his knuckles and it felt so much better, really, than splitting them against a wall or a face that he just couldn't get himself to leave. _Pussy,_ the sneering voice inside his head went.

But Claire kept speaking in that quiet, serious way, and he thought he would just _try_ listening to her instead, while she was still there, still talking to him, still touching him.

"Vernon came in to that classroom right after you left. Brian was there too—he came to check on me because—I guess he'd seen you, it was sweet—and anyway, then Vernon came to check on me, which was not sweet. _Vernon _told me what he said. He was all proud."

"_Brian_ was fucking there too? Why didn't Dick just announce it over the fucking PA? _Jesus Christ,_ Claire. Did he tell you he was going to tell your fucking _father?_" Claire nodded slowly. John punched the door with his other fist, but only with the side, because Claire had hold of his other hand and was still rubbing it. "Claire. I don't want you dealing with all this _bullshit._ He brought up _my father__—_and the fact I can even _talk _to you after that is just proof Vernon's fucking _right, _that I'm not good enough to breathe the same _air_ as you. It's bad enough you have to deal with me—"

He couldn't finish because a manicured hand was completely covering his mouth and a pretty angry looking princess was in his face looking like she was about to start breathing fire, like the princess was doubling as the dragon and his own role was somehow less than clear. "Shut up. _Shut up. _Don't _say_ that. Don't you _dare_ play on their side, John, _do you hear me?_"

Claire bit her lip and closed her eyes. She was furious, John realized. And for once, despite what it looked like, not at him. She opened her eyes and stared right _into_ him. "John. He's sick. He's not ok. And what he said—it made me feel sick. He has no right. He has no right at all. And you have no right, _no _right to believe him. I don't feel like that _at all_ and I _know_ I show that I don't feel like that. Just think about it. Think about it _hard._"

She let her hands leave his mouth, and one fell to his chest and rested there while the other smoothed up against his cheek and back to his ear, the one with the earring on it. She brushed the hair away from it, grazing the diamond, and she reached up to whisper in the ear, "They never meant anything at all to me until you started wearing one of them." She pulled back and looked at him seriously. "Do you really want to take their side against me?"

It would never in a million years occur to John that she could take it that way, that it would seem that way. It was pretty much automatic for him to figure walking out on someone was ultimately doing them a favor.

John shook his head. He could hardly believe this was the same girl who'd sat and sneered at him in the library on Saturday morning. She was the girl who thought he was sweet and adorable. The girl who bribed and lied to people so she could get to see him. He didn't want to take _anyone's_ side against her. Even his.

But how could he risk bringing his _dad_ down on her? "Claire, my dad—"

"Listen. John. Vernon has that _all wrong._ I'm not going to explain that right now because I don't want to spend all the time I have alone with you talking about our parents."

"Trust me, it's not my kink either. But, Claire—"

"Ok, fine, listen. You can't think straight on fathers. I don't blame you. But John, Vernon _knows_ that. He's just _fucking_ with you, it's part of his weird thing. For starters. My father—he saw us kiss, remember? He asked me if you were a boyfriend and I said not yet but I was _considering _ you. Got that? And he said he'd give me money to go out to dinner with you to make up for my having to go to detention, ok? He wanted to _make it up to me_ because he couldn't get me out of detention, which I'd gotten for shopping. _And_ he said I could get some new clothes for the occasion so I could feel like the princess I deserved to be, direct quote, ok? Do you get it? He didn't ask me, who is he, what's he like, who are his parents, is he good for you, like some normal father would. He asked, how can I bend over backwards to make sure you have what you want before you even know what it is so I can get it for you before your mother does, ok? I mean, it's bullshit but it's not, I'm gonna go after the kid's father if he touches you."

John was just looking at her. It was true, that was not a set of possibilities he had considered. "It sounds like your home life might be a little different from mine."

"Maybe a little. And as for your father. it's true, Vernon said something about that and it was kind of weird. But John, if he has anything to do with one of my dad's companies—if that's what Vernon is thinking, my dad's just not into the operations of his companies at that level, where your dad would probably be working. I don't know a nice way of saying that, I'm sorry. He'd be more likely to try to get _Vernon_ fired for trying to suggest I made some decision that wasn't perfect."

"Claire, I can't let my dad—"

"John. Look, you were right. Stuff that is in your life is not in mine. I wish _so bad_ it was not in yours. I don't understand much about it. But John, I don't think people who beat their own kids go around beating other people's kids. It makes sense that you see him as so powerful, because you've had to depend on him and need him and maybe even somewhere still love him, and he hurts you for it—but _I _don't have anything to do with him."

"I don't love any part of him and if he ever came near you I would kill him and not think twice about it."

"Well then I'll stay away from him because I'm _done_ with you getting in trouble because of me. But that, even _that _is just a distraction, the whole "fathers" _stupidity_ just shows Dick Vernon has no clue about people except apparently how to mess with _you_. The real point, the real point that makes him wrong, and sick, and why I will figure out a way to _take him down__—__"_

John knew she was being serious, but he couldn't help but smile. "Remind me to stay away from your bad side, because you are scary as hell, but I'm not sure you can go up against Dick Vernon. You're still a cherry there, too. "

"Listen. Just because you always underestimate yourself is no reason to always underestimate me. You may be the big tough guy in the school, but I'm a popular teenage girl. There is _nothing_ I don't know about manipulating people, ok? Deviously destroying someone's reputation while coming out smelling like a pure white rose? I can do it with my eyes closed. It's kind of messed up. But there it is."

She took a deep breath. She leaned in and kissed John's cheek.

"That's all beside the point. Dick Vernon doesn't understand _anything. _He doesn't understand anything about me, which should be fine because I am none of his business, but the most important thing for _you_ to know that he doesn't understand is this: Ok. Maybe I have everything and you have nothing. You said that. Maybe in some ways it's true. But you have the _one thing _I have spent any time wanting since I met you. Which in case you haven't noticed by my completely insane behavior, is _you,_ you idiot."

John looked up sharply at that, when she said what she wanted was him, and when she called him an idiot. He liked both things equally well. Neither sounded like pity. Both sounded like want.

"John. Listen. I _love_ it that you come near me. I _love_ it that you look at me. I feel like—when you look at me, in a certain way, like maybe when I've done something better than what you'd thought I'd do—"

John opened his hand and caught hers in it. "Which must be all the fucking time, then, Claire, because you blow my mind. You blow it right to pieces. You're doing it right now."

"I want it to do it more, then, because when you look at me like that—I think, _that's_ the person I want to be. The person that John Bender sees when he looks at me like that."

For once he knew exactly the right thing to say. Because it was true. "I'm only seeing you, Claire," he mumbled, unable to meet her eye and then needing to, after all.

Claire looked at him, tilted her head, and slowly smiled. "I think that's true. But you help me be me—better."

And that was the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to John Bender.

So he put his arms around Claire and held her, without moving, until he could be sure that he could replay it in his mind any time he wanted for the rest of his life. So he could replay it when Vernon was grinding him down or when his father was beating him down or when his mother was yelling him down or when the jocks and the preps were sneering him down. He held her until he had a lock on it. Then he whispered into her ear, "That's very nice, Claire, but if you keep talking like that around school you really are going to ruin my reputation, you know that, right?"

"Wait til everyone hears you called me sweetheart." She had put her arms around him to and was holding him tightly, nuzzling his neck.

"I did not." He spoke into her neck too. It smelled _amazing._

"Did so." She sounded pouty.

"Can't prove it." He nibbled slightly on her neck and she moaned slightly and John was giddy with it.

"Maybe I can prove it. How do you know I'm not wired for sound?"

"If you are, that's cool. Remember, my porn producer plan. _'Please, _John, put your hands up my shirt . . ."

"If you don't stop that I'm not going to even _tell _you the rest of my lesson plan, much less do it." But she didn't let go of him. She didn't back off even an inch. Her hands stroked the back of his neck and he began to put his tongue on her neck in some of the places he'd wanted to before, when she still had seemed far away instead of closer than anyone had ever been, ever, to him.

Then he murmured into her ear, "This counts as my being completely silent and attentive."

"Close enough. Close your eyes."

"Ok." He did as he was asked. Surprising girl, Claire Standish, he had to say.

John felt Claire step away from him then get something from back where her bag was stashed. He felt her come up to him and stand chest to chest with him, ever so lightly touching. He liked being in the dark with her and trusting her to do what she wanted to him. It was such a different experience of darkness from the one he'd had last night, the night before—any night in recent memory.

Claire reached her hands up and put something around his neck. It was incredibly soft. She rubbed it on his face. "Now, John. Pay attention. This is men's cashmere. It's a little thicker, a less flexible weave than the women's sweater varieties."

"Mmm. Smells like you" John thought it felt really good and was about to relax into this strange world of softness and kindness and sexiness that had replaced the sharper and colder contours he was used to, when another nagging thought caught at him: what was Claire doing with a man's scarf and whose scarf was it? He opened his eyes. "Wait—whose is it? Why does it smell like you?"

Claire smiled in that sexy, teasing way she had that would have driven him _crazy_ if she hadn't been right there, in front of him, giving him some things and promising him more. "It's yours, now. I thought you should have some homework. Reinforcement is so important." She grabbed onto either side of the scarf and pulled him toward her. She shifted her hips. John for the life of him did not understand why someone had not burst in to give him large medals of honor for self control. She took the edge of the scarf and played with it along his neck and jaw.

Then she spoke again, her mouth just out of reach of his so that he could feel the movements of her lips and breath in the air like the ghosts of kisses. "I was going to buy you one, but then I figured you'd like it better if it was stolen, so I stole it from my dad. He's got a billion of them. He'll never notice."

John took a deep breath, smelling chocolate on Claire's lips and some perfume she was wearing and something even richer and sexier in the scarf she'd wrapped around his neck. "It doesn't smell like a dad, Claire. It smells like you."

"Right. See, I thought that would help—jog your memory of our lessons. Like a study aid. Like maybe when I wasn't around to remind you—of what we'd been working on that day. So last night, when I couldn't sleep? You know that problem I've been having, of not being able to sleep?"

"Yeah. As you _well_ know_,_ I couldn't possibly be any more aware of that. And Claire, the idea that I need any reminding to think about touching you is frankly _insane._" It was getting hotter and hotter. She was hitting all his buttons. She knew he was hitting all his buttons. She wanted to.

"Well, I thought a few reminders wouldn't hurt—you're clearly a hands-on learner, and a smell or taste can trigger memories, too. So, anyway—last night, well, I wore it in my room, while I was doing my homework and stuff, just around my neck, but then I slept with it—so, you know, I could lie there awake and think about you—well, think about you when you're being _nice_, or when you were doing stuff that I liked—it felt nice, really, cashmere just feels pretty good against bare skin—"

"Claire. You are trying to kill me."

"Huh. And here I thought you'd like it."

And like that, John had them flipped around, his body covering almost every inch of hers, pressing her against the door with an arm on either side of her and boring into her with his eyes. ""Let me get this straight." He was fighting for enough control to speak but he wanted to speak, he wanted to say the words, he knew she liked the words and she was getting that glassy look in her eyes, her breathing was faster and ragged and he knew right then that she _wanted_ him like this, _wanted _him hanging on by a thread of control, wanted his want like he wanted hers. "Let's go over this. You thought I'd like it that you stole a scarf for _me_, a scarf that's made out of the same rich fabric as your sweaters that I think about touching twenty four hours a day, and then you wore it in your bedroom and went to sleep with it while you were thinking about me, in your bed, where it touched your skin, and then you put it around my neck so I could wear it any time I want, knowing all of that?"

"Yeah," she breathed. Claire the innocent virgin was a little past words herself.

"Well, let me tell you, princess, you weren't wrong." And without even meaning to, he ground his hips into hers to show her just how right she'd been. She didn't flinch. In more of a growl than a whisper, John ordered, "Tell me what you thought about." He buried his mouth at the base of her throat and bit a line up her neck. "Did you think about that?" He spoke through clenched teeth.

"Yes."

He thrust his tongue in her ear and then bit at the lobe, threading his hand in her hair and pulling gently. "Did you think about that?"

"Yes."

Still pulling at her hair, he brushed his lips along the edge of her jaw and ended at her lips, which he bit gently, first the top, then the bottom. "Did you think about that?"

"Yeah."

John pulled back to look at the girl he'd been pinning beneath his body and mouth. She was panting. Insane as he was feeling, he had to think just a minute. The sweater thing was thin, its straps were narrow. It was more daring to touch her in it than he'd been with her so far. But then he figured he was pretty much behind on daring at the moment. Plus his head was spinning, all the blood was somewhere else entirely and if he didn't touch more of her he would die of wanting to.

He traced his finger down the column of her neck, which made her gasp. He let it trace across her collar bone and to the strap of her top. He watched her face, and he watched his hands, and he watched her skin underneath him. She looked completely beautiful. He traced down the strap all the way down to the curve of her breast and down between, following the line of the cashmere but touching her skin just above it as he had before. But this line went lower and wider and he was touching more of her. She knew that, he could tell, she loved it and wanted him to go lower, further, at least her body did, he was sure. He traced back up the other side of the sweater and watched her. Her breath pushed her chest further toward him and he wanted to bury his face there and then bury himself in her but he swallowed that want and instead put the flat of his hand on her just above her breasts and left it there covering as much skin as he could without touching below the sweater. Her skin was pale, and soft, and he hoped his hands wouldn't scratch it. "Did you think about that, Claire?"

She nodded, but her eyes were wide. He trailed his hand back up to her neck and shoulder and then let it stroke slowly down her arm, which she then put around his neck, her eyes never leaving his face. She looked fascinated and he felt high as a kite on it, how curious, and turned on, and trusting she looked. He let his hand move down her side, grazing just the side of her breast and then wrapping around, under her shirt again, and up her back. He moved in to kiss her. He started gently, moving his lips on hers, dipping his tongue in slowly and softly, but then she groaned in a new, more guttural way, and he was gone. He plunged his tongue into her mouth, taking all of it. For a minute he forgot he was kissing Claire the virgin and it became just him and this wet, warm mouth and getting his tongue into every part of it, making it his. But when he realized that his intensity meant he was doing something like fucking her mouth with his tongue, he managed to pull back. He bet he looked insane. He felt insane. Claire was looking at him wild-eyed.

"I didn't know to think about that," she said quietly. She looked a little shaken. Her lips were swollen and she was trembling and everything about her was reminding him that in fact, she_ was_ a virgin and had no idea exactly what she was playing with, however much she wanted to play. He didn't want her to stop wanting to play. It was the very last thing in the world he wanted.

"Shit. Sorry. Claire. I didn't mean—I'm trying so hard to be good. I just want you," he pushed his hair back and then moved his hand to the side of her face and took a deep, shuddery breath, "so fucking bad. Just looking at you, just thinking about looking at you, I want you so fucking bad, and then you do these _incredible_ things—" but she made him stop talking again, this time with her mouth instead of her hands.

Then she pushed him back a little, ducked out of his arms and walked a little beyond him to her bag where she took out a compact. She opened it, but then looked over the little mirror and fixed her gaze his eyes. And then it was John who was afraid, afraid he'd gone to far and scared _her,_ and that she'd be running. He didn't know what to say, but then _she_ said, "John. I'll know to think about it next time."

John closed his eyes and nodded, and could feel some kind of no doubt incredibly stupid looking grin spread across his face at "next time." And they spent a few moments in silence.

When John opened his eyes, Claire had her blazer on and her hair was all fixed and her lips were glossy and except for a certain kissed looking quality in her mouth, you'd never know there'd been a Bender anywhere near her. It made John want to mess her up again, get her wild-eyed and tousled and much less dressed.

Claire must have been able to read that in his face pretty clearly, because she tried to roll her eyes and worked on not laughing.

Then he remembered coming into the room, what he thought would be waiting for him. He remembered Carl's commiserating—he'd thought—"it might not be as bad as you think." It hadn't been.

John looked at Claire and tried like hell to keep a straight face but he could not do it to save his life. And then he was trying not to laugh and she was trying not to laugh and then they were both cracking up, tears streaming from their eyes.

Claire managed to speak first, "What? What's so funny?"

"I don't know. You're just so much better looking than Dick Vernon." John's head was bowed and his chest was still shaking from laughing so much.

"Jeez. You really know how to sweet talk a girl, don't you?"

John gave her a slightly more serious glance, looking up at her from under his long hair. "Actually, Claire, I'm not sure that's one of my strong points."

Claire snorted. "Thought crossed my mind, too." But then she sighed. "It's ok. You have other talents."

"Meet me after school and I'll show you."

Claire smiled prettily and came a little closer to him again. She got that teasing look in her eye. "Well, I would _love_ to meet you, but you know, I have another emergency glee club rehearsal—you would not believe what happened yesterday."

"Wait, let me guess, you sang the stupidest song in the world with the biggest poser at school."

Giggling in spite of herself, Claire did her best at shaking her head sadly. "No, I was singing a beautiful love song with an attractive young partner when some _miscreant_ um, _perpetrated_ an act of vandalism, can you believe it?"

John raised his eyebrows. So she _did_ know. Good. "How do you know it wasn't just an outraged fan of good music?"

"Good point, I guess we'll never know the true motivations of the mysterious stranger in a really likely orange coat that you'll never guess, coincidentally _Brian Johnson_ just happened to see running_ away _from the direction of the auditorium door."

"Brian's an observant guy."

"Well, anyway, the sad conclusion is, I have to rehearse that song again this afternoon, so I wouldn't be able to meet you."

"I'll wait," John growled. "Meet me anyway."

"Well, but Percy did ask me out."

"The fuck he did."

"You find it hard to believe anyone asks me out?"

"No. I find it hard to believe that obviously openly homosexual lame pop star wannabes ask you out, and that you consider it."

"Um, I think I've only mentioned considering one person. You on the other hand are currently considering about fourteen—" She trailed off. "Listen. John. I just gave you a scarf and I specifically chose one that had no little fringes so you'd know—no strings attached."

"Very cute. Did you bring another one for Percy?"

"I'm not sure how that's any of your business."

"The _fuck_ it isn't."

Claire tossed her head. "If you _want_ it to be your business, that's a different matter. But there's a question from yesterday you haven't answered. You take all the time in the world to answer it. Nothing I said to you today depends on your answer, nothing I do with you depends on your answer. All that depends on your answer, is what I do with other people. If you listen to anything I say, you know where I stand. It's up to you, John Bender, and I'm not going to push you."

"The _hell_ you aren't, _Claire._"

Entirely coolly, Claire looked him in the eye. "I'm not. I like you. I'm not going to push you one bit to be someone you don't want to be. But if you change your mind about what that means, or what you want, I'll listen to that, too. "

John took a deep breath. He began to feel just a tiny bit sorry for Dick Vernon. "You're good, Claire."

Claire was by the door, she looked at him and suddenly her look was pure sex. "Oh, you know, I'm just learning. I'll get better."

Percy or no Percy, she was not getting out of the room until she made good just a little bit on that look. "Claire. Get over here right now."

"You'll mess my makeup."

"Damn fucking straight. Are you meeting me after school?"

"I told you, Percy—"

"Fuck Percy with a tire iron. Are you meeting me after school?"

"Well, when you ask so nicely—_no,_"

John rolled his eyes. He considered saying please, but really, there was a limit to how many times a week he could say something like that, and he was already over it on this day alone. So he shrugged. "Ok. Well, have fun. I'll catch you tomorrow, maybe." He saw a shadow of a doubt flicker across Claire's face. Ok. Not what she was hoping for, maybe. Or maybe she was just realizing, like he was, that "maybe tomorrow" felt like a universe of time away and that ache of not being with Claire was already starting. Maybe she missed him too.

But he was _not _giving in on this one. She was _not _going to dangle that asshole in front of him and then get him to say please. Now she _was_ teasing him. And he clearly was crazy about her, she _knew_ that. Just because he was apparently going to get weepy and huggy didn't mean that when someone said jump he said how high. Even if they had lips like that.

But fuck if she didn't have her hand on the door and if she was gonna leave and not agree to see him he'd give himself five minutes until desperate.

"Ok," she said, "see you." She hesitated, though.

John thought fast, and remembered something. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an unopened roll of lifesavers and started peeling it. He peeled slowly, then took one out and put it on his tongue, staring at Claire the whole time.

"Oh, hey, you've got mints, can I have one?" She sounded casual, but she was watching him pretty carefully, too.

John shook his head.

She got that princess look of, what do you mean I can't have what I want? "Jerk. Why not? I give _you_ stuff."

John smirked. "You can't have a mint, Princess, because I'm out of mints. These are lifesavers."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Can I have a lifesaver, then?"

John nodded. He took out another one and held it between his fingers. "Sure. You should have just said what you wanted. Come over here and get it."

Claire looked at him with a little trace of that "what is that cockroach doing on my shoe" look he remembered from Saturday. But John just kept looking at her, leaning casually, holding the lifesaver out and gently twirling the candy in his mouth. Finally she rolled her eyes and moved toward him. With his eyes full staring in to hers, he brought the piece of candy up to his own mouth and put it on his tongue, then closed his mouth. Off her surprise, he just stared and could feel his lips twitching. He crossed his arms, sucked, stared, and waited.

That got her. She really looked like she didn't believe it. "You want me to—"

John nodded. He could feel his lips twitch higher. He thought she was going to storm out on him, but then something changed in her face, he couldn't read the thought but it got softer and a little more molten at the same time that the princess shock at having to jump through a hoop herself was still written large.

But she did it. She got that challenge look in her eye, the look that said, "you asked for it," and she walked up to him, put her hand on his jaw, put her lips on his, and pushed gently to open them. He opened to her and let her tongue probe his mouth, slide up against his tongue as he gently pushed the lifesaver onto hers. Her tongue slicked over it and he felt her little intake of breath. He recognized she was looking for the other candy She found it, and there as another little intake of breath.

Claire backed off and looked at him with that wondering little girl look he would pay a lot of money to see. "John-" She said it a lilting voice, a happy little girl voice, like she didn't expect to get anything quite that good. "You just got two of the same flavor?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you kidding? You think I'm gonna waste my hard-earned cash on other flavors?" and he flashed her the roll of wild cherry lifesavers in his hand.

Her lips made a little "oh—" and she was back at his mouth again, kissing his lips and gently licking in his mouth and on his tongue. He started kissing her back, gently, completely gently, letting her take the lead and slick the candy around her mouth and his mouth. Her tongue felt curious and sweet and happy, even. He would have been happy just kissing her like this for the rest of the day.

She backed up and looked at him and made another little squealing sound and put her arms around him and hugged him.

"I can't believe you got those," she whispered into his neck. She kissed his mouth again and said, "I should be out by 4:30. Wait for me?"

She looked down, blushed, looked up at him _so _pleased and shy that he kissed her nose. Jesus. What the fuck?

"Do you want to meet me behind the bleachers?" she asked, a little nervously.

He shook his head. "Nope. Meet me at Mae's Eats. I wanna get root beer floats."

"Seriously?"

"Yup. I wanna sit at the counter with you and buy you a soda."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"John, you're so _cute._"

"No. I'm your scary as hell badass burnout crush who also likes root beer. Now get out of here. I don't want Vernon finding us. He comes in here to get stuff sometimes."

"John, if Vernon interrupted your actually asking me out on a date, I'd kill _him_ and not think about it. But don't worry. You've got your hall pass and Vernon's busy."

"How the hell do you know, and where's your hall pass?"

"I have my sources. But not a hall pass. Maybe I'll get in trouble."

"Now stop that. You're just trying to get me all worked up again."

"Would I do that?" she asked laughingly, and she walked out the door.

John put his head down. And now, it was official. He was officially in. _So_ much trouble. Over his head. Over the moon.

In a few moments, John Bender opened the door to the janitor's closet just as the bell rang. Carl was just down the hall, leaning on a broom and just watching him. John walked up to him. "So you were right. It wasn't as bad as I thought."

Carl gave him a little punch to the arm. "You see, man? It's all about perspective. And maybe, a redhead thrown in here and there."

John nodded. "So you probably get that all the time?"

"Yup. Nothing but chicks throwing themselves at me. Morning til night. Comes with the territory. Janitor. You know. Drives chicks wild. So tell me, how do _you_ do it?"

Shaking his head, John looked down, "I insulted her a bunch, stuck my head between her legs without her permission, and made her cry a couple of times. I guess she just got hooked."

"_Smooth, _man. Gets 'em every time. Chicks love that."

"Yeah, but now I keep wanting to be all nice to her. I said please and try to think of stuff to make her happy. Am I doomed?"

"Listen. I know you. Some guys can get themselves in trouble that way. I understand your concerns. But Bender, you're naturally just such an asshole, I think you'll be ok."

John smiled. "Thanks, man. Thanks for talking."

"Anytime, man."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N--Just a thanks to all the really great reviews on that last chapter, which meant that in a fit of irresponsibility I wrote this one all day long instead of other, less fun writing. Seriously. You guys are awesome. SO--this might need to hold you for a *little* while, but keep reviewing and I'm sure to break down :)

what do I have to do?  
(I'll do anything)  
what do I have to do?  
(I'll do it all)

--Violent Femmes.

____________________________

From the second the janitor's closet door shut behind Claire, the excruciating process of replaying her moments with John Bender began. She had to will them out of her mind to be able to walk down the hall. And then for a minute she couldn't. She leaned against a locker and closed her eyes.

Claire could still taste cherries and chocolate and smoke and his tongue, his tongue which under all those other flavors had a feeling and a taste that she hadn't known before and that seemed delicious to her, a cross between a taste and a feeling and a texture. She wanted to taste more of his skin, which was salty and slightly sharp and sweet and yet also tasted soft. When she breathed could still smell smoke and cashmere and flannel and a little sweat and just—boy. Guy. Whatever.

She knew he'd laugh at her if he knew, she was sure smelling good was probably well below sweet-talking on his own list of his "strong points." He was hardly the aftershave or cologne kind. But to her, he just smelled like whatever in the world she most wanted to touch.

The bell rang and Claire realized that she was standing in the Shermer High hallway leaning back against God knew whose locker in a state of what was probably entirely obvious excitement of a very particular kind. Standing there like that was at least twelve different kinds of bad, maybe even dangerous. She picked herself up as the other kids started to stream out of the classroom. She knew she had some class or other second period, but she couldn't for the life of her imagine what. French, maybe. No. She'd just missed that. Which meant probably there was a nerd out there somewhere who was at least slightly worried. She'd have to deal with that later.

She made for Bethany's locker in hopes she'd find her friend, but she caught only her back heading to . . . . Lit Elective! Which they had together. Hoo. Ray.

Throwing herself in her seat next to Bethany, she took out her copy of _Jane Eyre_ and turned her eyes toward the blackboard. Within about 3 seconds, she was back in that closet with John Bender and he was whispering in her ear in ways she knew were true that she mattered to him, that she was getting through to him the way he was getting through to her even though it could be so hard, sometimes, even though he could be so hard sometimes—and not in that good way. Then he had something more to say and what he had to say was kissing her, and she could feel that fluttering in every part of her still when she tasted cherry on his lips, how she tasted his lips and she knew that hardass badboy burnout crush of hers had gone out early in the morning looking for cherry chapstick.

He'd done that so that if she kissed him, she'd know. She'd know he'd been thinking about her and about how to tell her something when he was struggling with words. She'd know he'd been paying attention and was going to meet her halfway. That it wasn't just Claire who could change a few little things and do a few things differently and make it matter.

In fact, the thought that John Bender had gone from store to store to find cherry chapstick and lifesavers made her feel so warm and achy—in a good, sweet way, but achy that someone who had such a need for softness and could . . . think so much about how to do something sweet just hadn't had much of any of that in his life. He wanted cashmere lessons and he loved touching her skin just on her back, and above her bra, he was so careful, he kissed her nose—and—

He could have her up against a wall in nothing flat and bite her into liquid breathlessness at the drop of a hat. He could have her body pressed against him so that every single part of him was hard against her and still he'd have her wanting closer, harder, more. He could look at her like a slap and his words cut worse than that and all of that was real, too. It wasn't just a front. It was part of him, like his dad and his scars were part of him and they weren't just going away. It was slightly disturbing to Claire that it was a part of him that she also wanted.

It wasn't like his surprising taste for softness meant that he didn't really have a thing for edge and bite. He had a serious thing for that. The surprise was, so did she. She knew sometimes she was pushing him too hard, and she knew sometimes it was the hint of danger in him she was getting off on. It was no joke she'd been having trouble sleeping. She was doing a lot of thinking. She knew she really didn't want to push him, and she liked those soft parts of him best of all. But honestly, Claire also knew: she did like running up to that edge.

And then she was right back in there in that room again, he was pressing her up against a wall looking hotter and more intense than she'd ever seen anyone look, than she'd even dared to imagine. And she'd imagined it a lot. She'd imagined it while stealing the scarf, while wrapping it around her skin knowing it would be wrapped around his skin, taking it to bed as she let it touch her in places she hadn't let him yet. She thought about how he'd look when she told him. She knew he'd really love the softness and the caring behind the scarf but she knew, too, she hoped, that it might push enough buttons to drive him to the place of just a little past careful.

Which it had.

When he'd driven his tongue into her mouth like that, suddenly it was more sex ed. than she'd ever had and she knew that more than kissing, what they were doing right then was more like having sex than anything she'd ever even thought about doing. Not like making love which she thought would be more like when he touched her face and body and kissed her and she melted and when she wanted, they would get into this rhythm that would be almost like dancing, and they would be so close together and he would be inside her like some part of him already was. She'd thought about that plenty, in her mind John Bender was already her first, even though it had only been a few days and that first time still felt far in the future.

But that wasn't it. That wasn't what she'd tasted then, with John on her like the only thing in the world was him wanting her. John's tongue driving into her mouth like that told her what it was going to be like when John Bender, because she wanted it to be him, when John Bender would _have at_ her, when he would take what he wanted so bad from her body, when it would be about him and his want and his need for her. It had shaken her, scared her, made her back off. John knew it, too. It scared him.

But what he maybe didn't know, was there was some part of Claire that was going to get off on that pretty hard.

That was what she had learned from today's cashmere lesson.

The thing was this: John was each day making the someday when she would be ready for all of that—seem like a more real and exciting place. Someplace she would go for _her _and not just as a reward or a concession to someone else.

Just then Claire felt a nudge against her and she was back in class and the Mrs Irby was droning on about governesses and she looked down at a note on her desk. She opened it and said, "Who is he? Mrs Irby is just not that hot." Claire blushed beet red. She was really going to have to watch it.

"Would you believe, Mr Rochester?" Claire wrote back.

The note came back. "Not 4 even 1 minute. Mr R is supposed to be ugly and short. I know you, Claire. Spill."

"He's not ugly and short. I can't tell you yet—not just my secret. But I can tell you, you will be shocked."

Bethany wrote, "I doubt it. I've been watching a lot of French movies. As long as it's not your brother, I think we're good."

Claire suppressed a giggle. "Definitely not my brother," she wrote.

Mrs Irby threw them a look. "And so, Claire, how do you explain the attraction between Jane and Mr Rochester? He isn't very nice in some ways, is he?"

Claire collected herself. "Well, maybe she wasn't after nice. Maybe she wanted interesting and exciting. Maybe she wanted—a challenge. I mean, they were from different, like, social positions, right? He had a lot more power, more money and no one—no one really cared about her—she had nothing except herself. But she stands up to him and he stands up to her—maybe they were . . . I don't know, needing that. Like they were both not really perfect people."

"And you think they'd be more perfect people together?" Mrs Irby sounded doubtful.

Shaking her head, Claire continued, "No, I don't think that's the point. I mean, I haven't finished the book, but I think it's about finding what they need, and what they want, not what they maybe—what a doctor would prescribe, you know? I don't think they'd become perfect people. I think they'd stay themselves, but—maybe more so."

Mrs. Irby looked at her. "You don't think they'd have to change?"

"Um," Claire was perfectly aware that she was not just talking about Jane Eyre. "Well, Rochester is clearly going to have to learn that he can't just have whatever he wants by taking it or buying it, he has to work for it, and part of that work is wanting it and Jane . . . is going to have to believe that it doesn't matter what other people will think, she's Rochester's equal and deserves the respect he gives her. And she shouldn't just run away, which, I don't know, I heard that happens."

"You think Rochester respects her, at this point? Even with all the mind games and the fake romance to make her jealous and the ploys we were talking about?"

Claire found herself blushing again. "I think the fact that he was desperate enough to play all those games with her shows he really wanted her, and that with him, that kind of want meant respect—plus it's kind of hot, actually. But—that's just a theory."

She could feel Bethany's eyes boring into her. If she turned to her friend, she would totally lose it.

"Well, that's a very intriguing if somewhat unusual perspective on the novel, Claire. I'm not sure how it will work with the rest of the novel, but that's not what we're discussing today. Who has another theory?"

****

Claire and Bethany were barely two feet outside of Lit Elective before they were almost doubled over in laughter. Ruth-Ann saw them and came up smiling.

"Ok, so you have to tell me what's so funny because it definitely wasn't my history class."

"Oh, I don't know, Claire wasn't paying attention in even one way to anything Irby was saying and then she got called on. Then she totally had this long answer about, like, Jane Eyre and power and couples and respect and then she said, like, that it was all about wanting and that mind games can be hot. She said hot to Irby, who, like, probably last had sex in the fifties. I almost died."

Covering her face with her hand, Claire shook her head. "_You_ almost died. It was like I couldn't stop talking. I do think Rochester is kind of hot, though, don't you?"

Bethany thought. "Well, sure, if you like, you know, manipulative, hot and cold and a little cruel—he's awesome."

"I didn't say blameless, I said hot. Plus I also think it's hot when Jane stands up to him and claims to be his equal and that was what he really wanted—not subservience, but challenge. That's hot.

Ruth-Ann looked bored, clearly not having read the book. Then she turned around. "Hey, Claire, that burnout guy standing over there is kind of, like, looking at you. Isn't that that total skeeve John Bender? That's so creepy."

Ruth-Ann was talking loud and Claire completely cringed internally. She turned to where Ruth-Ann was looking and sure enough, there was Bender, not looking at her now, talking to one of his friends, but definitely, or at least possibly, within earshot. Why did it have to be Ruth-Ann? She was totally on the spot now, and the fact that Claire could taste and smell John Bender on her was not helping. However. She could do this. It didn't have to be mondo drama. Really, the mondo drama started when she and John got alone.

So Claire shrugged. "Sure. That's John Bender. He's ok."

Bethany and Ruth-Ann turned to her. Even Bethany looked startled at her casual tone, and Ruth-Ann was kind of shrill. "Come on, Claire, he's like, one of the biggest burnouts in the school, he, like, is always having sex with rocker chicks under the bleachers and I've heard he deals and steals stuff.

Claire faltered a little at the rocker chicks under the bleachers. Now she was sure John could hear. Because it would work that way. "Well, I never heard about anything like that, but if I had, I sure as hell wouldn't be yelling about it in the halls—I mean, what does it say about you that you know about that stuff? Plus, I'm not really under the bleachers having sex with anyone, jocks or burnouts, so I wouldn't really know who else is there. You know, Ruth-Ann?"

"Right," said Ruth-Ann, "I mean, that's just what I've heard."

"Well, so, how do you know he's ok? He does have a hell of a reputation. And how do you even know him at all? I mean, it's not like he shows on our scene." Bethany just sounded really confused.

"Yeah, well, since my scene became Saturday detention last week because I got busted for shopping unlike some other Bethanies I could mention, I had to broaden my horizons a little or, like, lose my mind of boredom. And I can tell you, John Bender was really helpful there. He can be, like, insanely funny. He cracked us up the entire time. Ask Andy Clark. Come on, I'm gonna be late."

As they walked past John and his friend, he looked up again, veiled but not, Claire thought, looking too angry. She thought maybe she'd passed that test. She called out in passing, in the same quasi-flirtatious voice she'd use for any of the boys in her own circle, "Hey, John Bender."

He nodded, and coolly added, "Hey there, Princess," much to the great shock of the guy standing next to him.

"Princess?!" exclaimed both Claire's friends in unison.

Claire rolled her eyes and said, hopefully loud enough that he could hear, "Yeah, I said he was ok, I didn't say genius, or, you know, polite."

Ruth-Ann was still not convinced. "I don't know, Claire, I mean, first that freakazoid Allison Reynolds and now John Bender? I mean, they didn't sentence you to permanent social death. It was just for eight hours."

"Yeah, well," Claire spoke casually, "I guess if social death is the price I pay for making my own decisions about saying hi to someone or not, I die. But you know? I think I'll pull through."

Bethany spoke up. "You know, Allison is really smart about colors plus—she's really pretty. She was just so weird before—but I'd hang with her. I mean, she's not one of us but not everyone has to be, you know?"

"Yeah, if everyone were one of us, what would be the point of us?" Ruth-Ann wondered. Claire, who'd been feeling like she'd done ok, was starting to feel sick again. Which was the precise moment that Stubby and Chip Moran chose to run up behind her and Ruth-Ann and tickle them.

Claire, of course, squealed. She whipped around and found herself practically in Chip Moran's arms. "Get off of me, you perv!" she shouted, but she was laughing, "I'm gonna be late, does no one care about me at all?" She could see enough jeans and flannel behind Chip's head to know that it was likely someone was watching. Uncomfortable, but a little excited, she wrenched herself free from Chip and swatted him on the arm.

"Claire, tell you what—let me make it up to you. Go out with me on Saturday night, we can go downtown—I've got my dad's beamer . . . Stubby will double with Ruth-Ann, come on."

Hesitating, Claire did anything but look in the direction of flannel. No one had, after all, asked her out on Saturday night. No one had, after all, specifically indicated that they had any objection to her going out with other boys—whatever fire alarms they might have pulled. And no one had suggested that they were going to clean out their wallets or not go to the bleachers with rocker chicks or anything of the kind. The problem was, the thought of going out with some boy that wasn't John Bender to the most exciting restaurant or club in Chicago wasn't as exciting as getting backed up against a closet wall or abandoned building by John Bender.

"You know, Chip, it's Wednesday—I already have plans Saturday—even though this time it's only something lame with my parents. Listen, why don't you check with Bethany, I think she might be free, ok? You guys could still go with Stubby and Ruth-Ann. And maybe we could do a rain check. Maybe sometime when you haven't just made me totally late. See you later, some of us still want to get into college." And she was off down the hall, almost running, not looking back.

Fine. But if he didn't say something soon, she was going to go out with other guys, she didn't care how much she didn't want to. And she could give him that in writing. It was just that, considering the thoughts that occupied most of her mind the last class and the activities that had occupied the period before that, considering that he had just adorably asked her out to have a soda with him and bought cherry chapstick, it seemed a little soon.

*****

At lunch, Claire sat first with her friends and did her best not to be looking around for John. Of course she knew where he was, he was with his friends, in the back right quadrant of the room. But she wasn't looking. She knew Ruth-Ann was looking at her now, and she could take their comments about Allison, but her heart didn't beat differently and her breathing didn't quicken when she said Allison's name the way it did when she said John's. She thought she'd pulled it off this morning, but she just didn't want John anywhere near her friends right now. Not for her sake. For his. She didn't want anyone looking down on him and his seeing it. So she tried very hard not to look. Also, so as not to see how many girls were at his table. A number which was roughly a lot.

Brian, she'd noticed, was sitting with Allison and some guy she didn't know. Andy Clark was hanging with some jocks. She hoped that didn't mean trouble in paradise. Then Claire remembered that Brian would have missed her in French so she excused herself and went over to them—although not without catching Ruth-Ann's eye rolls.

Brian looked up first. "Hey, Claire. Hi. You're here."

She smiled. "Yep. In the flesh."

"Um. This morning, where were—oh." He nodded, off a look from Claire. "Right."

Allison smiled as Claire sat down. "In case you were wondering, I made Andy sit with his friends. I'm hanging out with him after his practice. I mean, he doesn't have to be a social outcast just because—"

Claire tossed her head. "Just because I'm one now?"

Brian looked at her seriously, "Is that what you think?"

"No, probably just a bad joke. But I do have some," and she turned in Ruth-Ann's direction "seriously bitchy friends."

"Are they, like, saying stuff, about, you know," and Brian gestured towards the three of them.

"They say stuff all the time," Allison said, looking at Claire thoughtfully. "At least, that girl Ruth-Ann does. She's trying to hurt you."

Claire looked right back at Allison. "I just try not to let it get to me." She turned her back on her old table. "Well, luckily I have more important things to worry about than what Ruth-Ann thinks about who I eat lunch with, you know?" She turned to Brian's friend, who looked a little out of place and seemed to be trying to leave. And then, she noticed, he didn't really look that much like a friend of Brian's—more burnouty, or something.

"So, hi, I'm Claire."

Kenny blushed. "Um, yeah, I know. I mean, everyone does, right?"

Brian stepped in. "This is Kenny. He's a friend of John's, and he's like, an electronics genius. And, he helped me with my stupid elephant project—it's going to work now!"

Kenny nodded, still blushing. "And Brian's helping me with math. Bender set it up. You know him, too?"

"We were all in detention together—so, yeah."

"Wow," said Kenny. "Maybe they'll let me go to detention some time." It was pretty clear he was impressed to be sitting with Claire.

Motioning them to go closer together, Brian started talking. "So anyway, you know that thing we were talking about yesterday?"

Kenny shook his head as the girls nodded. Brian looked at him. "Right. You wouldn't remember because you weren't here. But anyway. You're about to learn. Because you can help."

"You fill him in. I'll get Andy," said Claire, and she got up and headed towards the wrestlers. This meant she was also walking toward John's table. John couldn't see her, though, because a bleached blonde with teased up hair and a tough but sexy-looking leather vest and mini skirt had her hands over John's eyes and was whispering into his ear.

Claire noticed the girl was very pretty and much chestier than Claire was. She noticed John smiled and tried to look up, which mean he leaned his head back further into the girl's chest. Another guy laughed, hit John in the arm, while John took the girl's arm and moved it from his face, then shoved it away playfully. He moved over so she could sit down. He didn't hug her or kiss her or anything, but Claire could tell just by looking—they'd been together before. That was how they touched. She could tell the girl wanted to again. And while John wasn't really responding, he wasn't completely not responding—whatever. She really couldn't think about it.

He was wearing the scarf she'd given him, even though he'd been inside for hours. She had to believe she was giving him something other girls weren't. But the replay of their morning scenes that she hadn't been able stop before now failed her and all she could see was John Bender smiling and leaning into that pretty girl's space, that pretty girl who wanted to have sex with him, and he was smiling, and mocking, and looking like _that._

Only when Claire got to Andy's table was she able to stop looking. Bender had never raised his eyes to her. She greeted the table of guys, then Andy. "Hey dudes—Andy, come over here for a minute." She gestured toward Allison, Brian, and Kenny. "Brian has an idea about that thing."

"Oops. Gotta go, guys."

One of his friends coughed into his hand, "Whipped."

Andy turned fast and looked like he was about to bite the guy's head off. But then it looked like he had second thoughts and he just shook his head. "I told you, man, I'm not into the rough stuff. So stop asking." The whole table laughed and anyone near him hit the guy who'd said it in the head. "Burn!" shouted one.

Laughing, Claire took Andy by the sleeve. She said to him in a low voice, "nice one."

Andy bent his head, "You know, I—it's not as hard as I thought it was going to be, but it's not always that easy, you know? How are you doing, you know, with everything?"

Trying to shrug casually, Claire answered, "It's ok. But I would say—it's plenty hard. But we're not open like you guys are. If we're even a 'we.' And even so—Ruth-Ann and Bethany just saw him _looking_ at me and had a cow."

"What'd you say?"

"I said he was funny and kept us laughing in detention. I didn't say, that, he was the best guy ever and a great kisser."

"Well, that's good, because he's not the best guy ever. And the kissing, Claire, _I don't want to know._"

"Sorry. And no, maybe he's not, but you know I _like_ him and I didn't exactly say that. I said he was like a good jester or something. You know what I mean. I was kind of lame. And then, just the idea that I would laugh at him in detention, Ruth-Ann was sneering at me. Let alone what she says about Allison. Plus she's going to try to take me down, and it might work. But it's all—I don't know. Compared to having the principal tell you you can't even look at someone, and then going home to a dad who might burn you with a cigar, it all seems kind of mild."

Andy nodded, then looked a little worried. "You know it means a lot to Allison, right? And she's not stupid. She knows what you're doing."

"Andy. I don't know that I've ever been so confused, like, in general, but Allison is the one thing I'm clear on. Maybe I can only do one quasi-lamely brave thing a week. And anyway, _Allison _isn't playing footsie with seven other girls at lunch."

Andy looked over in Bender's direction. "I don't know, Claire, it's other guys and girls. And he's looking at you, anyway. Plus, what do you care if Allison talks to other girls? I think it would be a good thing, you know?"

Hugging herself, Claire looked down. "Of course I don't care—I want her to hang out. And of course I make no sense, ok? Did I mention confused? All right. Listen. Let's hear what Brian has to say."

At the table, Claire was tuning in and out, she got the gist of what the others were saying but mostly trying to tell without looking if John Bender was looking at her or flirting with other girls. But then she heard Allison's voice, "Claire? Can you do that part?"

Claire thought she'd followed enough to know, but she wasn't sure. "I think so. I think—I'll talk to Carl, you know? I think he should help me. I gave him—I gave him a bunch of money today. I think he likes John. I think we can trust him. So Kenny, I'm passing you some bills under the table. Get whatever stuff you need, ok?"

"I can go with Kenny after school," Brian offered.

"And I'm on for the first part this afternoon, like we planned yesterday. But Kenny, do you really think you could do this other thing? I think it would be—well, among other things, potentially _so fucking funny._" Andy looked pretty enthusiastic

"Yeah, with what Claire here just slipped me, I think I can get it together, if you guys can take care of the next phase." He looked at Claire. "So you just know him from detention, and you'll do all this for him? Cause I'm sure I could be more naughty if I tried. I could get all kinds of detention."

Brian punched his arm, laughing. "Hey, you've got a girlfriend."

Kenny hung his head. "Yeah, man, I know. What can I say, guys are assholes. I love Stacey. I was just kidding."

No one but someone looking very closely at Claire could imagine that she was more upset at that comment than her relationship with Kenny could possibly warrant. Allison, it turned out, was looking closely. She frowned. She looked over toward John's table, and sure enough, he was talking to a girl. Allison saw the girl put a hand out to touch a scarf John was wearing but John swatted her hand away. Allison couldn't tell if he was really pissed or just joking at that distance. She couldn't tell if Claire was looking. She just had a guess that what was going on there was interacting with what Kenny had said. Allison said softly, "Claire?"

Claire started, then shook her head. "Sorry. I've got a lot on my mind. Anyway, Kenny, one, I don't steal boyfriends and two, it's not just me. It's all of us. We think John's a good guy and—he kind of went out on a limb for us.

"Actually, it was more like a ceiling—" Brian added for accuracy.

"Right. whatever. But that isn't even the point. I mean, the point here is, there's something wrong with Vernon and John. No one should be treating a kid like that."

"Hey, you guys are awesome, right? But it's not like Bender doesn't have a mouth on him. I mean, he does make his own trouble."

Claire shook her head. "Not all of it. And yeah, of course he has a mouth on him." She worked hard to control her breathing as she said the word mouth with reference to John Bender. She was trying hard to sound cooler than she was. "He's a kid, though. Vernon's a grown-up. It's his job to deal with troubled kids or whatever, not to _threaten_ them or beat them down. Plus no one gets to say who my friends are. Except me. And now if you'll excuse me from this after-school-special moment, I've gotta run." And with that, she was headed out the door.

Allison looked toward Bender, then got up herself. She kissed Andy quickly and said—"Actually, I forgot to coordinate this afternoon with Claire. I'll see you after practice?"

"Yeah, if I get to _go _to practice. Like, ever. Again," Andy said, darkly.

"Either way," Allison said, looking at him with that sudden total seriousness and intensity, "you're my hero." And _she_ was out the door.

Kenny looked wonderingly at Brian. "So, how come _you_ didn't get one of those?"

"Um. I've wondered that myself. Believe me." Brian smiled a little ruefully. "Hey, it's cool. I'll always have physics, you know? Plus—some friends. And, um, an unexpected elephant light."

*****

Allison caught up to Claire in the hall. She didn't say anything, but grabbed Claire by the arm and drew her into an alcove behind a flight of stairs. She smiled, "I know all the good places to hide."

"I guess I should take notes. I guess I need hiding places now." Claire sounded lost.

Folding her arms, Allison looked at Claire. "I don't have a lot of practice at this, but what _I _think a friend should say now is this. I know what you're doing—for me. I know what they're saying—about me. I get it. And I know what you're doing for John—with all of us, but it was your idea. I know some of what you're doing _with_ John—because, I can see how you look at him and I—I can relate. But—you're, doing all these things, and you're thinking about other people, and that's great, but you're putting yourself under a _lot_ of pressure. And other people are putting you under pressure."

"Allison, it's no big deal. I'm not doing anything for you. We're just friends. And girls like Ruth-Ann, they're just stupid."

Narrowing her eyes a little, Allison said slowly, "It _is_ a big deal. It _is_ a big deal to change your life and your friends and what you think is important."

Claire sniffled a little. "But _you're_ the one doing those things. I'm just—saying hi to people. I talk to like, three different people at lunch and I told my friends that John—that he was _funny_ in detention."

Considering, Allison was silent for a moment. "And that's why you're upset?"

Half laughing, half crying, Claire shook her head. "No, that's the stupidest thing. I'm upset because John Bender was sitting near his friends and some of them are girls. I'm upset because one of them put her hands on his eyes and she was beautiful and sexy and I _know_ she had sex with him. She's in his wallet. And I think she touched my scarf."

"Your scarf?"

"The one I gave him. I gave him a scarf. I just want him to know that—I think he's worth something. I _hate_ how many people tell him he's worthless. But then when I think about him with other girls, it makes me so mad _I _could say that."

"Well, I saw that girl put her hand on a scarf he was wearing and then I saw him swat her hand away. If that's worth anything."

"Oh."

"So let me get this straight. You meet John, you make out with him sometimes, you talk, it's just the two of you, and it's all intense, right?"

Claire nodded, rubbing some running mascara under her eyes.

"And then you see each other, from time to time, during the day, with _other_ people, and those other people are acting like nothing's changed. Which for them, it hasn't. And that makes you think, and probably not _just_ you, by the way, hey, wait, maybe nothing _has_ changed. And then you can't just go see John and have things be normal or get reassured because you're all secret and stuff."

Claire was looking at her strangely. "Have you been following us around?"

Allison shook her head. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Am I pretty close, though?"

"Close enough you could have been there."

"Well," Allison said, "That's never going to work. Something's gotta give. No one has _that_ much self-confidence, and I'll give it to you in _writing_ that John Bender doesn't—"

Quietly, Claire agreed. "I don't either. And I shouldn't. I mean, what teenage boy is going to give up having, like, sex on demand to make out with some awkward virgin in a closet—but I think about it, and I just _can't_ have sex yet. I can't just go out to the bleachers and have sex with _anyone, _I just _can't. _And I _especially_ can't have sex with someone who still wants to have the option to have sex with _other_ people. And even if not—I mean it should be no big deal, but—"

Then Allison took her arm and shook her. "Claire. Listen. I know I said all kinds of messed up things _about_ sex on Saturday. But what's true is, sex is a big deal. Maybe it's a bigger deal for girls because of—how we're built. Like, someone has to get _in_ there. But listen. Don't _ever_ let someone in your body if you aren't 100% sure you want them there, ok? Because _nothing_ is worth how that feels."

"I don't know," Claire said, still quietly. "Cause then I think, if part of you wants to, maybe the rest of you will just, come around. I just don't know."

Allison gripped Claire a little more tightly and looked her straight in the eye. "I do."

Claire flinched. "You know—wait, did someone do that to you?" Suddenly, all her problems with John Bender were forgotten.

"Someone tried. He got close—he got—a, a finger—in. In me." Allison winced, as if remembering the feeling. But then she smiled, first one side of her mouth, then the other. "But I won."

And then Claire hugged her friend and just said, "I am so sorry. I had no idea. I am _so _sorry that happened to you, and I'm _so glad_ you won. And thanks for talking to me. Thanks for helping me remember what's—what's really important. I just—I get confused."

The bell rang. Claire grabbed Allison's hand and walked into the hall. "So, do you wanna, I don't know, sleep over at my house on Friday? Maybe Bethany's coming—but you could maybe come straight after school? And we could talk—more, maybe. About what you just told me. Or not. Anyway, it could be fun. And Andy's busy, right?"

Allison squeezed her hand back. "Yeah. Yeah, I would love that. I'm going to his meet Satruday morning—if, if he as one. Maybe—Bethany likes France, right? I could bring some travel books and magazines. I collect them—you know, places I could go . . . and I have some French movies."

"She would _love_ that. That would be cool."

"Great—but if, Andy doesn't go—could he come by for part of the time, maybe? I don't think it's going to happen, but if it does—he shouldn't be home. And if not, I'm going to see him wrestle on Saturday."

"Of course," said Claire. "Good idea," They dropped each others' hands but continued walking down the hall together—attracting, Claire couldn't help but notice, more than a few pointed looks. When they came to Claire's locker, she noticed that the lock was to its side and pointing inwards. "Ooh. Note," she said, opening carefully. She whipped out a folded—more crumpled than folded—sheet of notebook paper. It said, "Cherry. Just 10 minutes. Last ten minutes of next period. Boiler room." and then there was a scribble, and then it was torn.

Smiling, Claire showed Allison. "Sweet-talker, huh? That's what I like in a guy"

"So, are you going?"

"I can't not. It's not like—I mean, I'm meeting him later. But at least this way, there's 'just 10 minutes' I know he's not with some other girl. But would it _kill _him to say please?"

Allison was studying the paper. "I'm pretty sure he started, here," she pointed to the scribble, "and then he tore it off."

Claire shook her head. "I guess I'm not the only one who's image-conscious, you know?"

"Oh, you're _definitely _not. But Claire," and this in a whisper, "does _he_ put pressure on you, to, you know—"

Thoughtfully, Claire said, "No,—surprisingly, because that was kind of how he _started talking _to me, you know, like his first words were, 'why aren't you—you've never, ha ha" but since we—like, started, he, he doesn't, not really at all."

"Good. I'd hate to have to kill someone you obviously care about."

Claire laughed and rolled her eyes. "God. I love it when people will kill for me. Was it the eyeliner lesson?"

Allison nodded. "That was it."

"So, where's the boiler room, and I cannot _even_ believe I'm asking that. _When_ did my life get _so surreal?_"

"On Saturday. It's down those stairs—behind that door at the end of the hall. See ya."

"Bye," Claire waived, and ran to catch up with some other girls.

****

John was waiting in the boiler room, pacing, hitting pipes and random shelves with the flat of his hand, feeling like a total loser for not being able to get through the rest of the day—just the day—without seeing Claire again. If any of his friends ever found out about this, his life would be over. _Over._ But he couldn't help it.

Things could seem so clear, and then just a few hours, he was feeling all worked up again, and not in a good way. Like first, she'd _kind_ _of_ stood up for him, like, at least she hadn't trashed him—it was good to be funny—and then she'd actually said hi, like he'd been anyone else, and in a way, that felt really good. Not over the moon good, like he'd felt when they'd been alone and just after—when he wasn't feeling like shit—but just, kind of normal.

So he'd been feeling good and then he turned around and some random jock had his hands all over her and he was _flirting _with her, and she was flirting back, and he'd _asked her out,_ in _front of John_, because why wouldn't he since John "didn't exist at this school," or in Claire's official life, and then Claire at least had said no, after hesitating, and then said something about a rain check.

A _rain check?_ Like if she got sick of John by, maybe, next _Wednesday,_ when, apparently, it was already too late to be checking on a princess's weekend plans, which John couldn't remember to do during the minutes he had with her because his head was always spinning, at least she'd have a _rain check_ in reserve so she didn't waste her weekend.

And for that, she wanted him to—whatever, drop his girl/friends/sometimes more, and like, how? He didn't even know. He didn't have anyone to break up with. He just had—friends. Who were girls. And some of them, were frankly, smoking hot and very talented and wanted to fuck him. Which Claire obviously didn't, or wouldn't, but might be interested in going clubbing in a beamer with some jock. But he didn't want to ditch a whole category of friends for some girl who would probably be sick of him in a week, who had no idea, really, of who he was or where he came from, for some girl who—

Who went out of her way, again and again, to make him feel amazing.

But by the time he got there, to that thought, and remembered it, and remembered her saying "please," and moaning, and saying that he, John, was the only one she wanted touching her, and kissing him like he was the very last thing on earth—as opposed to saying no to some random guy in the hallway—by that time, he was halfway through lunch. He was halfway through lunch and he had Michelle next to him and although he was pretty sure he hadn't done anything too bad, even in his jealous insanity which he didn't even understand or acknowledge to be true, by the time he remembered that Claire was actually doing _everything_ to show him how much she cared, fucking aside, and remembered that five minutes alone in a closet with her felt _better_ than a lot of sex felt, and remembered that he hadn't even _thought_ about sex with anyone else since he'd first talked to her—by _that_ time, he was pretty much sure that he also remembered the feeling of leaning his head into Michelle's chest, which was after all familiar territory, remembered the feeling of her voice right in his ear, her hand on his arm, his leg, in his hair.

So at that point, of course he looked up, and saw Claire talking to Andy, and knew the path between where she'd been sitting and where Andy was sitting pretty much put him straight in her line of sight the whole way, and now she was _not looking_ at him, in a way that was as deliberate and pointed as when she stared. And then, to top it all off, Michelle started playing with _Claire's scarf, _at which point he smacked her hand away, which was unfair but not out of character, and pretty much looked for the first out.

Then Claire had left lunch early, looking a lot less happy than the last time he'd seen her. Then Allison had followed. And John figured there was a good chance he was pretty well fucked. And then he followed, but couldn't find them anywhere.

So he wrote a note and put it in her locker and ditched class early with a lame excuse and was waiting. And pissed off to be waiting. Pissed off he couldn't let this girl just a little bit roll of his back. Hoping like hell she couldn't do it either.

Door opened. Thank _fucking_ God.

"Can't get enough of me?" she said in a teasing voice.

So they were ok, apparently. "Really not." Well. That was a bit more honest than he'd planned.

It was dark in the boiler room. And his back was to her. He was waiting for her to say something about Michelle. She didn't. Instead, she just walked up to him and said softly, "So, did you want to see me about something specific?"

He turned around. She was giving him a pass. She wasn't calling him on it, on Michelle or any of it. Not that it was hers to call. But still. "Yeah, it was something specific," he said, and he took her head in his hand and pulled her mouth into his and just started kissing her. And sure enough, everything felt better. Everything felt great. Her lips now tasted like root beer, and he remembered his words "badass burnout crush who likes rootbeer," and he chuckled while he licked her lips and she ran her tongue over his tongue and leaned into him. And there they were in the dark with good feelings.

John pulled back. He didn't want it to get too sexy, actually. He was worried about her feeling pressured. He couldn't really believe it about himself, but he was.

"So, it was just about that _specifically_, and then, you said hi to me in the halls, and so I thought either I was on some candid camera program or, like, maybe you wanted to start a conversation."

Claire backed away a little. "Nope."

"Not even about how Mr. Rochester is hot?"

He couldn't really see her, but he was pretty sure Claire got pinker.

"Who the hell is Mr Rochester, anyway?"

"If you tell me you are jealous of Mr Rochester you will make every single thing that sucked about my day totally better."

"I don't get jealous. That's just not—that's a bullshit way of thinking. People aren't other people's property, right? So it's no problem with you, like, flirting in front of me with your jock friends and whatever. Just don't bring them in here with me. When you're with me, you're with me, when you're not, you're not." So John Bender now clearly understood he had a death wish. _He_ was gonna bring it up? He was _crazy. _"So who's Mr Rochester, is he, like, a teacher?"

"Oh, I don't know, how can I keep track of all my lovers you're not jealous of—Mr Rochester is _so_ second period. It's after lunch. Give me a break."

And there it was. He was going to fall in love with her. That became clear right along with the death wish. He didn't even believe in love. But Claire was so fucking pretty, and sweet, even loyal, but she was also sharp and _funny, _which was still a surprise,. Plus she wasn't ragging on him for flirting with a girl in front of her. She was ragging on him for lying. And she was _burning_ him. She was getting him _so good._ And he loved it.

John started laughing. He couldn't help it. And then Claire was laughing even harder. She backed up against a pipe she was laughing so hard. "John, Mr Rochester is in a book. He's in a novel."

Of course he was. And John would know that—how? "So you're like, doing it with fictional characters now in second period, but you won't let me get in your pants?" That was a little bit of daring. Death wish. Love interest. Root beer lip gloss. Whatever. He was _so_ into her.

"That's right. Not yet. But fictional characters—that's a different story. They are really hot, plus, they have a good vocabulary, and they say _please_ sometimes_, _and . . . no pesky bodies."

"Wait, could we go over 'yet'? Because I don't have a good vocabulary but I'm very interested in your use of that word in the context of me getting in your _pants_."

"'Yet' is a word that in this conversation means "never, ever, ever," unless you say, right now, "I admit. I was jealous of Mr Rochester."

"If I say that, can "yet" mean, say, later today?" So much for not pressuring her. But keeping that resolution in the face of Claire mentioning some kind of concrete possibility of getting near what he'd, after all, already seen and could have reached out and touched, was not a challenge he would have set for himself. It was not a challenge he could pass.

"No, not for my _pants, _but it _might_ mean, like, you could hit a double soon. Later. After you say that. And after you take me out. A girl has standards."

"Claire, I am so fucking jealous of Mr Rochester I can hardly move." He closed his eyes. "It's _painful._"

He could swear he could hear her smiling. He looked at her again. "But seriously, Claire? What sucked in your day? Did someone do something? I could kill them." He was holding his breath. Now he was giving her yet _another_ chance to bitch about Michelle.

"That's so sweet. You know, Allison already offered to kill one of my problems—but I told her I liked you. Anyway. Nothing important. Just some bitchy friends. I mean—you heard, right? In the hall. Stuff like that."

"Right. I'm _insanely_ funny. But Claire, it's not like—"

"Ssh. Don't talk. And close your eyes again."

Then John felt her near him. "Don't open your eyes." She sounded all commanding. He obeyed. It was possible that _was_ one of his kinks. Then she grasped the scarf she'd put around his neck earlier and pulled him toward her and he felt her lips on him, on exactly the spot she'd first kissed him. She was soft. It was so sweet. He smiled, at the memory, at his surprise then, at the many more surprises since.

Then he felt the teeth. Then the pressure, then a tiny pain, and then a slow, hot ache and he got what she was doing. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head in total pleasure. "Oh my God."

Claire pulled back a little. "You can tell me if you want me to stop." She was telling _him _that. Incredible.

"Really not," he managed to get out.

So she didn't. She kept sucking at his neck, mouthing, and biting softly and slowly and he had no idea how she would know how much he liked this, how the strange and sad frequency with which his home life had made bruises bloom on his skin had made him love the silky, slow, dull but intense bruising that was the opposite of and was but also like what he knew, that were in a language of caring he could read and was known to him but they were not wrong. And they left a trace on skin in blood and color and they marked you and he wanted to be marked by her and wanted her to want that badly, and then just the pure intensity of feeling took over and he felt his hands slide up and slowly stroke the sides of her hips and then the curve of her ass, and that felt so good, so good he never wanted her to stop.

So it wasn't that he was _going_ to fall in love with Claire Standish. It was that he was doing it, right then and there.

She stopped, pulled away, and he managed to open his eyes enough to see her, looking at him, shy and a little curious. She whispered, "So. Last night, when I was thinking? I—uh, I thought about that too."

John nodded. He could feel his stare and his jaw a little slack and he tried to find words. "Yeah." He wasn't sure that counted as words but he was pretty impressed with himself.

"You—that was ok?"

He closed his eyes and let his head roll back. He wasn't sure he'd _ever _felt good in quite that way. "Let me put it this way. Do you think it's too soon to discuss marriage?"

"Maybe a little." She smiled. "Maybe we should have our first date first, see how that goes."

John opened his eyes and shook his head. "After our date can I do that to you? I'll trade second base."

"Let me put it this way. No."

"Why? I think you'll like it."

"John Bender, you _know_ I'll love it. That's not why. You're just not ready to do that to me yet. That would mean—it would mean something different on _my _neck. You know it would."

John had to nod. She was right. On her neck it would mean, _"Property of John Bender_" or, "kind of slutty now." It would mean, "not so pristine as you thought," to everyone who saw. And it would mean, "for everyone to see," and with that it would mean walking down the halls, and maybe getting into fights over her if anyone figured it out, and what it _couldn't_ just mean was that Claire had a dirty little secret. "Ok. But you should know, I'm—"

Claire folded her arms and stared at him. "Considering it."

John winced. "Claire—"

But then she kissed him where she'd just marked him and then looked up at him again. She looked shy, and said "I know you don't like to show it, but you really are a decent guy."

"You're deluded. Your friends know the score." He had his hands back around her, rubbing at her sweater.

"I don't care. Do you know what it says on your neck?"

John nodded. "I do know. It says, 'Claire was here. To anyone," and he looked at her straight on, "who might be looking."

Claire looked down.

"You know, I wasn't born yesterday, Claire." But he was smiling.

And there was a moment of silence.

Claire looked up and asked, "So, does your little marriage comment mean you're rethinking the whole one guy one girl thing?" And he could hear how her voice was full of hurt and hope and he decided to go with his gut. Deflect. Defer. Joke.

"Hmm." John pretended to think, "It may not mean that, but at least it means I'm thinking about moving to Utah. Wait, if I said yes, could I do that to your neck?"

"Um, not after that _Utah_ comment." So. She'd play.

"It's supposed to be pretty there. You might like it."

"Funny. You're a funny guy" She said it lightly. But she turned to go.

"_Insanely_ funny, last I heard. But Claire?"

"Yeah?" She was by the door.

"I seriously _love_ root beer. I'll be happy, you know, with root beer. As long as—" And he trailed off. He was recognizing the panic, his knowledge he hadn't been able to take the moment, he'd ducked the punch, got his own in, called it a joke, and now this moment was over and it would be more looking for each other in the hallways, pretending they weren't.

"Right. Saint John. One of the gospels, right? I'll see your holiness at 4:30." She opened the door. "And for the record? I wasn't born yesterday either."

_____________

A/N again: Oh no, these poor kids, how can I leave them like this for even a minute, they're so confused! And what is Claire's nefarious plan for Vernon? And what lip gloss will she and Allison think of next? Will John Bender ever get it right without getting it wrong within five minutes? Will he ever get up the front of one of Claire's apparently limitless collection of cashmere sweaters? Will Brian ever use a complete sentence? Will Ruth-Ann ever do anything but vaguely threaten in the background? Will Claire ever get to finish her duet? Will Percy Dale ever come out of the closet? Tune in next time for "As the Breakfast Club turns..."


	13. Chapter 13

Why can't I get just one . . .

--Violent Femmes

_________________________

When Allison Reynolds showed up at his elbow after school, waving his lock in her hand and just staring at him, John Bender wondered that he wasn't more surprised. She stood there, swaying softly, speaking to him as if he'd been late for an important meeting he'd forgotten. "C'mon Bender, we're going out somewhere to smoke cigarettes, corroding our lungs while our dates engage in healthy after-school involvement."

John nodded. "Orders received. Should I be scared?"

"Depends on how you respond to interrogation. And on how many cigarettes you have."

Bending down to grab a book, John looked over his shoulder. "Anyone ever tell you you might need to work on your sales pitch?"

Allison shook her head. "What sales pitch? I don't speak."

John smiled, straightened, then gave her a little shove on the shoulder. "How times change."

"Quit your slacking, _Bender_. You're even slacking from slacking." Allison was in his face and in his space. Nothing she said sounded casual, the way it would when someone else said it. It all sounded like a pronouncement. But that was cool. He liked her. He shoved into her side a little, pushing slightly, causing her to trip up, and then she shoved right back into him, and in this way they made their way down the hall to the back entrance.

As John ushered Allison to a choice spot under the bleachers, bowing low, Allison raised her long skirt and curtseyed. She delicately took a cigarette from the box and smiled as John lit it.

Allison blew an experienced-looking smoke ring and asked, "So is this where you bring all your girlfriends to make out with them?"

When John had stopped coughing, he managed to get out, "Trust me, not what I had in mind for right now."

"Not with me, maybe, but what about the blonde girl with very large breasts you had draped over you at lunch? Did you come out here with her after lunch?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I didn't have anything draped over me at lunch except this scarf. And her name is Michelle and she's a _friend_ of mine."

"Huh. Claire and I must have been hallucinating then cause it looked so much like she was a more or less frequent sexual partner of yours and that she had her hands all over you and I also heard you had your head buried in her chest before that. It was probably one of those mass hallucinating things like when half of Nicaragua sees the Virgin Mary in toast or, like, aliens in the parliament or something except in this case it was just, you know, the two of us and anyone else who happened to glance your way at any time during lunch. Just one of those freak things. I'm sure as soon as I explain that Claire will feel better."

"It's none of Claire's business either," growled John. He was looking down very hard.

"Course not." Now Allison was speaking very quickly. "That's probably why she was so relieved when I was able to show her a good hiding place for when she was crying after lunch. Probably she didn't want anyone to see her crying about something that was so _obviously_ none of her business. I know all of the secret places to cry in school. That's why I'm going to be such a valuable new friend to her during this time while she's falling in love with a guy who's crazy about her but not enough to, like, risk anything at all to be with her or take his head out from in between some other girl's tits, at least in _public_."

"Trust me. I haven't gotten near _tits_ all week, ok? And for your information, Claire is _not_ falling in love with me, and that's one of the main reasons I'm risking _plenty._ Plus I saw her _after_ lunch, she wasn't upset, she hadn't been crying, we had a great time, and you don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about. Are we done?" John made like he was about to walk off but he didn't actually go anywhere. "Claire doesn't have any problems letting me know stuff bothers her, ok? Plus I can tell when she's been crying." He kicked at the ground with his boot and muttered, "It's not like I haven't made her cry before."

"You know," said Allison conversationally, as if nothing difficult had been said at all and they were talking about the weather, and so for once, everything she was saying sounded completely casual, now that nothing she was saying _was_, "one of the things that makes Claire such a great new friend for _me,_ besides the fact that she will actually speak to me, is that I learn so many great cosmetics secrets."

John was looking at Allison with wide eyes. "Are you planning on sharing them with me now? Because although I feel like I'm doing ok on my own, cosmetics wise, I'd pretty much welcome_ any_ different topic right now. Like I'd call my aunt to talk about her bunion surgery and it would be a step _way_ up from this chat."

Allison tossed her cigarette and went on as if John hadn't spoken. She started rummaging through her bag and bringing out little tubes and sponges. "Like this, for example, is a little spongy pad, and if you put cold water on it and then just dab it under your eyes gently, it helps take away any puffiness. And this," and she held up a little plastic bottle, "as you probably know is Visine, which is so useful for getting any telltale redness out of eyes if you've been smoking _pot_ or, you know, doing anything else that might make your eyes red. And this," she triumphantly waved a beige colored tube, "is, like, $20 for an ounce or something, Claire got it at Saks but she said I could have some because her mother gets pissed off when she _doesn't_ charge enough makeup there. And it is the _best_ under-eye concealer in the world, you could not sleep for a week or cry for an hour and then you just dab some of this on on and look fresh as a daisy."

She threw everything back in her bag and took a deep breath. "Isn't that interesting? She's such a great friend". Allison reached into John's coat pocket, grabbed the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, took another one out, and lit it.

"Nice scarf," she said.

John Bender took a deep breath and slid his large frame down one of the bleachers' supporting poles until he was sitting on his crumpled coat. He was pissed off, pissed Allison horning in like this, making him see and own up to things he already knew somewhere and was working very hard at ignoring and she was pushing him, _pushing him_ toward doing things and saying things that, for whatever reason, he _did not want to say__—_not to her, not to Claire, not to himself. But he didn't want to blow her off, in part, because he knew she was working out what it meant to be a friend to Claire and was even, in her own completely bizarre way, trying to show she cared about _him_ and because, more selfishly, he hoped that she _did_ have, maybe in her bag jumbled with the concealer and the flavored lip gloss, some secret girl knowledge that would help him figure out _what the fuck_. Period.

"It is a very fucking nice scarf. It is the nicest fucking scarf in the world, nicer than anything I own except the fucking diamond earring that she also gave me. Ok?" His voice sounded incredibly angry and nasty, even to him.

Allison's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I can see why you'd be so pissed off. What a bitch."

John felt like flipping her off but didn't. She was goading him and he didn't know why.

"It doesn't matter how much you dress up a frog, ok? Frog doesn't turn into a prince. It's just a matter of time before she realizes it. At least I'll get a scarf out of it, you know?"

"You're not a frog, except for being kind of slimy at lunch, and Claire doesn't really have any shortage of _princes,_ if that was what she was after. If she wanted someone that _wasn't you, _don't you think she'd have options?"

John stood up and started pacing. "_YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW CLAIRE STANDISH HAS FUCKING OPTIONS?"_ He slapped hard at a metal bar. He thought he might cry, and he thought he might hit something, and he thought he might strangle this strange girl in front of him. "Look—Michelle is a _friend, _we've been friends for a _long time_ and I wasn't doing anything with her that _Claire_ doesn't do with her fucking _jock_ buddies in the hall in front of me, ok"

Allison nodded. "Oh. So, Claire had sex with fourteen jocks and nuzzles their secondary sex organs the halls?"

"Stop SAYING things like that! I'll have to fucking MURDER you and I LIKE you!"

Allison kept right on talking as if she'd never stopped, as if no one had said a thing. "Huh. What a good actress. Cause she had me convinced with all that virgin stuff on Saturday. So. I take it back. I can see how that must hurt you, her flirting with her prior sexual partners in front of you, especially since you're probably all kinds of insecure about, like, your experience compared to hers."

"Right. Claire insecure. She has so much to be insecure about. _And_ fuck you twice over." He started shaking the bars so the entire bleachers rattled. "She may be a virgin but she's pretty much a _genius_ in that whole area, ok? And she's not suffering from any lack of evidence that the stuff she does gets to me, ok? Enough said? And as far as anything else, she's the fucking queen of the school, everyone loves her—she's go her _options,_ she's already got her _reserve_ dates lined up, ok? For when she gets sick of me? She lined them up _in front of me._"

Now Allison was standing up too, waving her cigarette around so wildly that John figured he'd have to be really pretty careful not to lose an eye. And she was shouting, now, too, her eyes alternately wide as saucers or narrow as slits. "Oh, so. I keep misunderstanding. You _told _her, then, that you wanted to be all exclusive with her, and you didn't want her to see any other guys. You basically _told_ her, you wanted to be, like, her steady boyfriend, because the thought of her being with other guys makes you sick. But she really didn't want to commit. She said she wasn't like that, didn't believe in it—basically, she hedged. So you figure—she really might want to keep fucking those jocks, at least on the side, when she's not with you."

John was working everything he had to keep from hitting Allison. Because he did _not_ hit girls. Or she'd be flat on the ground. And she just kept talking.

"Or you figure, at least, you know, she wants to keep those _options _open, in case you yourself aren't really enough. Ok. So I get it now. I can see why you're resentful. But you're trying to be understanding, hoping maybe she'll _come around_. Because you like her so much, cause you just care so much, you're every day changing your whole life around, you're willing to put it all on the line, and you're just hoping she'll catch up, and you figure you just don't have much of a choice except to be with her on her terms."

"Fuck you, Allison. That's not how it is with her."

"No shit, Sherlock." And Allison blew another perfect series of smoke rings. This made John throw his pack of cigarettes, narrowly missing her head.

"No, idiot, I mean, that's not—you _know_ what I mean. And I _know_ what you mean, and _that's _not how it is with her, either. She gets over this weird thing with me—when—one week? maybe two? However long she gets off on making out with the burnout in the broom closet, you know? It's not like you and Andy. It's not like we're _together, _like we'll admit it. So she gets sick of it. Realizes I smell funny. Whatever. And she goes back to her daddy's BMW, and her prom, and her duets, and her date reserve, and her college prep. But me? I can't even go home because _I_ don't want anyone who's been in my fucking house near Claire, ok? So how do you think Claire is going to feel if she sees it? Or her parents, once they figure out where the hell I come from. She has no fucking clue about my life."

John took a deep breath. "But those girls are my _friends_, ok? Yeah, we fool around. Sometimes. And yeah, it's fun. But so maybe, maybe I feel different about Claire. Maybe I want to _kill_ every guy who looks at her, and since every guy looks at her, I want to kill the world. But what am I supposed to do? How do you break up with your friends? And like, Claire and I are this big secret, as far as _putting everything on the line_ goes. So what, I'm supposed to just say to these girls who have _always_ liked me, _in public, _sorry, I can't tell you why, but don't fucking touch me any more, cause I'm secretly exclusive with the girl who's queen of all the kids who shit on you, who look down on you because of stuff I do with you, which we both like, and even though I always told you I'd never be exclusive with you, cause I don't believe in it, now I'm fucking apeshit over the virgin prom queen, like I've finally found someone who's worthy of the glorious John Bender? Do you have any idea how badly that is going to fucking hurt those girls? And I'm supposed to somehow do that? And then Claire gets sick of me and I've hurt all these people for nothing and I'm left to go back to what, exactly?"

He slid down the pole again and just sat there, staring into space.

Allison sat down too. When she spoke, her voice had that kind quality he remembered from the other day, she sounded much less crazy, much nicer, much more like a friend and John realized this might make him cry.

"That does sound harsh. And it does sound, I have to say, pretty hard to explain to someone like Claire. I mean, I get that. But what really interests me is, how do you know Claire will get sick of you in a week?"

John just gave her a look. He gestured to himself, his clothes, and then the world around him. "Cause I'm a rocket _fucking_ scientist."

Allison was talking faster. "I mean, it's not like these kinds of things haven't crossed my mind with Andy—but I just figure, even if he gets sick of me, goes back to his old life, I tried, and I gave it my all, and—maybe it works out. But if it doesn't, I was happy for that time, anyway. Which I wasn't before. And which, however many _friends_ you had, you weren't before either. Cause I'd seen _you_ before too."

John didn't answer. Now Allison's voice was wavering a little. "Doesn't—doesn't Claire try to let you know she cares about you?"

She waited for an answer, but John couldn't give her one, because he was just stuck in a loop of all the things Claire had done, day, after day, to let him know she cared about him. Which was, in some twisted way, the source of his panic.

So Allison went on. "Cause she does with me, and she tries something different every day, and she—she's _thinking_ about it, you know? Like, what would be a good thing to try, to be my friend? I don't think anyone's really, well, I _know_ no one's done that for me before. Maybe that's part of how she got popular, because, she can make people feel good, not like—just bad, like some of those girls. I mean, you should have seen your friend Kenny at lunch, I thought he was going to _swoon_ or break up with his girlfriend, and she just said two words to him . . ."

"Great," John muttered. "Now I have to kill him too and I always liked the guy."

"Not all her friends are like that, you know? Some of them are just mean, and they are going to be mean to Claire because of us. Like that Ruth-Ann, who's just _laying in wait _to hurt Claire, because she's talking to people like you and me. But Claire keeps talking to me, and—I'm pretty sure she'd talk to you too, or she will. She's making progress, she's thinking—she's like, coming slowly out of this cocoon, or something. But with me—I mean, she doesn't do it, because she doesn't have any other friends—obviously. She does it because she likes _me,_ and because I think—"

And as he looked at Allison, he could see she was crying and smiling at the same time, "Because there's something that she sees in me that she isn't finding in other people, that and, she knows—I need a friend, and she likes making me feel good—like that makes _her_ feel good. She held my _hand_ in the hall, John, and everyone was staring and she still held it, because she knew—I needed it for a minute. And John, she's thinking about you a _lot_ more."

For the second time that day, John Bender could feel a tear trickle out of his eye, "It's cool she did that, it really is, but she doesn't hold _my_ hand in the hall, Allison."

And then her voice was sharp again, and she whipped around to face him, "Yeah, I wonder why. Since you _yelled _at her that she didn't need to worry about what people would think about walking down the halls with you, because it was _never going to happen._ But you can't see why _she_ might be insecure, because _you're_ so insecure, it's like there's no room for any other insecurity in the _entire world._"

John scrubbed furiously at his face with his hands.

"You know what she told me, along with the make-up secrets? She told me that probably, if a little bit of a person wanted to have sex with someone, you might as well go and do it even if you knew you really weren't all the way ready, and it would probably be ok if it meant that the boy you wanted to have sex with a little bit, the boy you _wanted_ _so bad _whether you wanted _all the way_ or not, it would be worth it if it meant he wouldn't go and sleep with someone else while he was being nice and understanding and waiting around for you to have sex with him, since you couldn't possibly expect that just you, yourself, who you were and what you were _really_ comfortable and wanting to do, would be enough for someone like _him._"

John leaned his head back until it hit the pole. He felt another tear. He couldn't handle it, he _couldn't handle it_ that Claire might do that with him and not want to and he'd be too worked up to know the difference. "I swear to _fucking God, _Allison, that is not from me. I would rather _die_ than have her—have her do _one thing _she didn't want—I'm so careful. I try to be so careful. If I go—if I get even a little bit too—I just stop. I say sorry. I let her call all the shots, I swear to God. I know I say all kinds of shit that makes me look the opposite but now I would _rather die_ than have her do that. I would rather never touch her again. And I'd rather touch her fucking _hand_ than fuck any girl on the planet."

"Did you tell her that?" whispered Allison.

"Maybe not—in so any words. But I tell her, _yeah, _I tell her."

Allison nodded.

Then John said, in a small voice, smaller than any voice he'd ever heard come out of his own mouth, "Did she say she felt like I was trying to get her to do stuff she didn't want?"

And this time, Allison shook her head. "She said you weren't."

"So where does it come from?"

Off Allison's look, he held up his hands. "Right. Stupid question. So what do I do?"

"Take some of the pressure off."

"But I didn't put it on!"

"So?"

"She likes doing—she _likes _it. Allison, I wasn't born yesterday. I can tell when a girl likes something. She likes it."

Crossing her arms in front of her, Allison looked at him steadily, contemplating. "That's not the kind of pressure I meant but—how can you tell?"

John was about to flip her off, but then he remembered, she was a virgin too, with her first boyfriend, and might be asking about these things for more than one reason. "What, you want a blow by blow? Elevated breathing, certain sounds and—she tells me—plus, she laughs. She smiles. She looks—she looks so fucking happy when she's with me, sometimes, and we hardly even get to be together, and half the time I'm probably being an asshole. But she looks so happy, like glowy happy. And she squeals and hugs me and tells me I'm cute. _Me,_ that I'm cute. Ok, so maybe she's delusional, but I swear—she likes it, ok?"

"Huh. But you—you don't feel good?"

"I feel like God. Except having much more fun cause I don't have to worry about running the universe and she's—she's _amazing, _it's like you said, like, she's always thinking up stuff to do for me, to remind me she likes me, like she knows I'm gonna forget, and she gets all, like _protective__—__her_, protective of _me_, and she's funny, and she just—she _gets_ me, like, gets _exactly _what to do—I feel so _fucking_ good, I _never__—__"_

He stopped. He looked down.

"So why are you crying?"

Then he went on, swallowing hard. "So when—when she figures it out, that, like, I'm not what she thinks it's just—it's gonna hurt so fucking much, and then—anything, whatever thing I had before, which wasn't much but when I didn't know how good something could feel, it was ok—but now anything else is just gonna feel that much worse. Because I'll know, now, what I'm missing. And every time she walks out of the room, I see that, and I feel that, and I know every one of those guys is so much more—could give her so much more, and I just panic."

"So it's not that you think, she wouldn't be enough for you."

John shook his head. He hated this. He couldn't believe he was saying this stuff. He couldn't believe this was him out here, with a girl, and instead of copping a feel he was _crying_ about a _different _ girl. His eyes had closed, but when he opened, he saw a chin very close to his and some still pretty intense looking eyes staring at him in an even more intense looking way.

"John, when was the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

"I don't know. I passed out at Skins' last night, on his fucking basement floor. I was sure I'd fucked it up with Claire so bad, I kept smoking joint after joint to try and get rid of that feeling, to get rid of her face and then I—I got up this morning to find cherry chapstick, and if you ever tell anyone, I'll rip your head off, I don't care if you're a girl."

"You got cherry chapstick?"

"Shut up. I just wanted her to—_telling_ her stuff wasn't maybe working."

Allison held out her hand and pulled on John's sleeve. "C'mon. Before you meet Claire. She said to tell you she might be a little late. Let's get you a new shirt."

"I'll be fine. I don't wear new clothes. I don't have any money, I have to buy Claire a soda. She gave me a diamond and cashmere and I have to get her something."

"John. I have enough money to buy you a new t-shirt at Woolworth's. You'll feel better. It sounds stupid, but you'll feel better showing up to meet Claire in a t-shirt that you didn't sleep in on a basement floor stoned off your ass trying to forget her. C'mon. You bought flavored chapstick. You get it about the little things."

John let himself be pulled. "I'll pay you back." He felt in his pocket, realized something was missing. "And pick up my smokes."

To his surprise, she bent over and picked up the pack of cigarettes he'd thrown at her, took one out, and handed him the pack. "You always smoke this much?" he asked.

Allison shook her head. "I almost never smoke. But when I do, I smoke this much." She leaned in to him and whispered, "I kind of like extremes."

"There's a shock." He lit her cigarette.

They walked across the fields, past the school entrance, and across the street to Woolworth's.

As they walked, Allison said in that weird new casual tone, "If you mean that scarf to be hiding that bruise on your neck, you need to adjust it."

John rolled his eyes. "Allison. I don't have to hide it from anyone I'm going to see this afternoon. Ok? Do I pass?"

"Yes. This time. Which is good. I'd hate to have to kill you."

"Claire told me specifically that she asked you not to kill me."

"Well. I'm pretty sure I just betrayed her a little already. What's one more thing? But if you tell her I said any of that, I'd have to kill you twice."

"Only once, remember? Because you don't have to kill me about my neck. Why'd you betray her, then?"

"Because I thought about it a lot, and I figured that not betraying her a little would have been betraying her worse. And sometimes you have to take a little risk, even with other people's feelings."

"Gee, what could you be referring to? You're so cryptic and creepy, you speak in riddles."

Allison smiled, secretly. "But don't worry. I didn't tell all her secrets. There's still some surprises left."

"I have _no _doubt."

They walked in silence a few moments. Then he asked, "Why did you pick up the cigarettes I threw at you?"

"Because I made you throw them with my cryptic creepy ways." And she pushed into John, just a she had in the hallway. John pushed back. "And John, everyone knows there's reasons why we might sometimes need to cut you some slack."

"Allison, I don't know how to break this to you, but that little _chat _back there? That wasn't _slack_ that was being cut. What was being cut was more like my fuckin' _balls_ off, ok?"

Allison blew more smoke rings. "See, you're only able to say it like that, that because I cut you some slack."

"Huh?"

"I'll show you." They were at the door to Woolworth's, Allison stubbed out her cigarette on the brick wall and they walked in. Allison made straight for the back of the store where the party favors were. She walked up to the counter where they sold balloons. "One balloon please."

"Color?"

"Black."

"Whatever you say, miss."

John watched the man behind the counter shaking his head as he gave her a black balloon on a black ribbon. Allison smiled, took the sheet that said what she had to pay for the balloon, and drew John towards the men's apparel section. When they were in front of the t-shirts, she motioned for him to pick some. "Get some underwear, too. And some socks. Change in the back of the store, and give me the stuff you're wearing. I'll wash it and bring it to you tomorrow. Oh. Look. Workpants. Those are ok. Get those too. I'll wash everything you have on."

"Allison, you don't have to do all that, ok? I mean, I can do my own fuckin' laundry, you know? Plus you don't have that kind of money."

"If I thought I had to do it, believe me, I would never do it. Remember why I got detention? If you did your laundry, you'd probably have to go home, and then you'd think Claire shouldn't go near you, which would make her sad. So I'm really doing it for her, not for you. And I have plenty of money. It's my runaway money, you know? And usually" and she lowered her voice, "It's pretty easy to save, because I don't really have to pay for stuff, you know? Paying is this new thing I'm trying."

John shook his head. "That's right. I was forgetting that you are a complete and total basket case for a minute. And can I have my lock back?"

Wordlessly, Allison handed him his lock. And his wallet. And his roll of lifesavers. "Wild cherry. Very cute." She said. "Don't worry. I didn't have any of those. I imagine you don't like sharing."

John put his things back in his pockets, chuckling. "Good guess."

Then she said, "And you should really do what I say. Remember," and then, as John watched, transfixed in spite of himself, Allison expertly untied her black balloon and put it to her lips. She breathed in, held her breath for a moment, and then breathed out as she said in that high pitched heilium voice, but otherwise dead serious,"Just remember, if I hadn't cut you slack, you would have been talking like this."

His entire body shaking with laughter, John grabbed the balloon. He inhaled some helium too. "You mean I would have sounded like this? Just like this? Do I still sound threatening?"

Allison took the balloon back. "Dick Vernon will never mess with you again. But lay off now. I don't think it's the voice you want for your date."

*****

Claire was running late because she had _had_ to catch up with Andy, to make sure things had gone ok with him and Vernon hadn't, in fact, had him kicked off wrestling. It could still happen, she knew, but she felt like that would have been a really big price to pay. Andy'd wanted to do this thing, it had even been, in large part, Andy's idea, but now that it came down to it, Claire was nervous, because she liked Andy and she hated Vernon and didn't want Vernon to pick this time, of all times, to play the stand up guy when he could be screwing with John Bender. Plus now, maybe, with the idea from lunch, they'd be able to get by without Andy sticking his neck out at all. But he was adamant about going through with it, said he was going to do it anyway, and so someone should benefit from it, if possible.

So she'd seen Andy, and it had all gone down the way they thought it would. He was going to catch the last part of practice. And now Claire was running to meet John.

Of course she'd had a difficult time at rehearsal. Because it was actually a little distracting to be singing a love song while thinking about giving a hickey to John Bender in the boiler room. That is, the love song was annoyingly distracting from the memory, which was kind of amazingly good. It had been like a perfect moment, boiler room and all, she knew she was doing something perfect for John and she knew, she just _knew_ that she was making him feel amazing, that there was no room in his obviously blown mind and totally turned on body for any thoughts of any other girls. Maybe not for any thoughts at all.

At least, that had been what it was like for Claire. For a while it didn't seem that time meant anything at all, it was just her hands wrapped in cashmere and the taste and feel of John Bender's skin on her lips, between her lips, between her teeth, against her tongue. There were the rhythms she fell into as she sucked on his neck and the rhythms that he started in return as he lightly stroked her sides and then her ass, which felt so good, so natural, she didn't even think of stopping him. And all the while, she'd _loved_ the thought that what she was doing with her mouth on his neck would show up on him, that she'd be able to know, and so would he, and so would anyone else, that it had happened, that he'd let her do this, that he'd wanted her to. And her entire body, too, had felt turned on, tingly, powerful.

So it was hard to think about anything else, she was going to see him in an hour and a half, and then an hour, then forty-five minutes, then just thirty, and every one of them dragged. And knew she would figure out a way, as soon as she possibly could, to taste his skin again.

And finally, finally, she walked the last block to the diner, she looked in the window and there he was, still wearing his coat, large frame hunched a little awkwardly on one of the counter stools. He turned on the stool as she walked in, leaned back a little with an arm on either side, his legs a little spread and bent from balancing on the stool. He gave her that sideways smile that liquefied her insides as he said, "There's that cherry on top I was hoping for."

His coat hung open so she could see he was wearing a bright white shirt, a little tighter than his usual baggy thermals and flannels. Claire thought he looked incredible. The white made a sharp contrast with his skin which looked darker and really, really good. More lickable, even. Her stomach started doing flips, like all the butterflies were back in force, they just kept getting more and more plentiful. So she kept right on walking, she walked right up to him, eased right between his legs, leaned into him, and licked him by his ear before she whispered close into it, "Hi, John. Sorry to keep you waiting." And then she kissed him, very softly, on the cheek.

John had his hands lightly on the sides of her legs as she stood between his. He looked up at her with a kind of dazed expression, "If hi is going to be like _that,_ you can keep me waiting any time."

As if recollecting where they were, he swiveled his stool, Claire still between his legs, to face the stool next to him. He eased Claire back onto the seat but kept her legs between his and took her hands to steady her as she sat down. Once she was sitting, he kept hold of her hands and swung them back and forth a little as he swung back and forth on his stool, nudging her legs first on one side, then on the other side with his own. He was just staring at her, looking at her all over, up and down, and up again. But he was also being, like, gallant. She couldn't believe what was happening. They were sitting at a counter holding hands. It was like what teenagers did in old movies, and John Bender was doing it with her.

And then he looked at her more seriously, in the eyes, and held onto her hands, stroking them gently with his thumbs. "Really, Claire, if you just, keep saying hi to me, like that, or like _however,_ I don't have any problem with waiting for you, for—for whatever. Or if ever. You know, you just take whatever time." He looked down, having trouble, obviously, and Claire couldn't really speak either. When he looked up, though, looking nervous, and unsure, and so far from his usual cocky that she thought her heart might break right on the spot, for some reason, like maybe happiness, she looked right into his eyes and just hoped he'd see that feeling. And then he said, very quietly, "And it's not like it's just waiting, you know, I mean, it'll be great here when ice cream comes but it—it feels good like this too, you know, like, even just—like this?" and he looked at their joined hands.

And at that, Claire could feel herself break out into a huge smile, and then she felt her own hand, as if of its own will, travel up to the hem of his shirt and tug at it a little. She let her fingers run up the material, up over his stomach to his chest and back down.

She swallowed, hard. "You got a new shirt, John. You got a new shirt for taking me out."

John Bender then actually blushed. In front of her. Red. "Yeah, well, Woolworth's finest, you know, nothing's too good for my Princess." Claire knew he meant to be ironic, and to be cutting himself down, but the fact that he blushed combined with his use of the word "my" in front of a name he used for her made her breath stop and her whole body buzz even harder than it had before. She knew it was a little messed up that she liked it so much, but she _loved_ it.

So she let her hand travel from his shirt down to rest on his thigh, not too far up, not trashy, but definitely there, on his thigh, meaning to be there. His eyes widened, and then she said, "Well, if that's what Woolworth's can do for you, then all those guys are wasting their money at Ralph Lauren, because _y__our Princess_ thinks you look good enough to eat."

She felt as John's entire body tensed at her words, his eyes got even wider and his grip on her other hand tightened. Then he let it go, he put both hands on _her_ thighs, leaned in to her, and spoke softly but very intensely into her ear, "And then there's the possibility that you'll say and do something like _that,_ and then all bets on the whole waiting thing, will be totally _off_, since I am, after all, a seventeen year-old _guy_ and not a geriatric fucking _monk, _and there's the possibility that instead I will be white knuckling it until the second I can drag you out of here and have you pinned up against the nearest alley wall, screaming my name, and what the fuck are you trying to do to me, Claire Standish?"

Claire gently pushed him back, looked him in the eye, and trailed a finger along his coatsleeve. "I'm trying to remind you, John Bender, that while you're waiting for an ice cream sundae, there's nothing to stop you from enjoying, say, a root beer float with me, or a—cherry coke, or—a whole variety of other things. From what I hear, they have a big menu, there's a lot of different things we could try. I mean, I might not like all of it, but it should keep you from getting bored."

"Claire, do I look _bored_ to you?" John's eyes looked a little wild and his breath was coming very fast, his hands were shaking a little and she had to say, he looked anything but.

Smiling, Claire shook her head. "Really not."

"Good. Because 'bored' is not a word that comes to mind within ten feet of you. Insane, maybe. Turned on out of my fucking skull, definitely. But not fucking bored. And that's without your moving or saying anything at all. So you don't have to worry about doing anything to keep me interested, ok? Because that pretty much takes care of itself as long as you keep breathing." John sounded a little exasperated but Claire thought it sounded extremely hot.

"John. What if _I _like root beer floats? I mean, we know I like root beer, I bought the lip gloss, right?"

"Good point. Mae? Mae! Mae, I need a root beer float, two straws, and I need it, like, yesterday. I need it so fast it would make your head spin. No time to lose, Mae, do you hear me?"

He sounded completely insane. Claire started giggling and swatted at him. "John, you sound crazy."

"Yeah, well. At least I don't sound fucking _bored._ Mae? Mae! I also need an ice cream sundae. This should _come_ after the root beer float. I want, two _big mounds_ of vanilla ice cream, covered with _hot_ fudge, and—and some really _hot, sticky_ caramel, lots of whipped _cream_, and a great big cherry on top. Two spoons." He looked at Claire. "You'll like spooning afterwards."

"John, I can't believe you just turned ordering a sundae into like, an x-rated movie."

"So what, I ordered. And Cherry, you turned a clean _t-shirt_ into an x-rated movie. Cherry, I'm telling you, you're gonna love it on top. Mae? Mae! We need a side of cherries with the root beer float, too." He turned back to Claire. "Because I cannot _fucking_ get enough of that _wild_ cherry and I don't mind waiting for a sundae but I am more than happy to take whatever I can get _right now_."

Mae, a broad, friendly looking woman who did, as a matter of fact, look a little bored if also amused, came out of the kitchen holding a large root beer float topped with a cherry and a small metal dish of cherries on the side. She placed it between them, put two straws and two spoons on the counter, and nodded at John, gesturing with her head towards Claire. "So, you finally found a lady friend?"

"Sssh. Mae! You're gonna make her think I don't bring girls here all the time, c'mon, you're going to blow my reputation!" John looked horrified.

Mae frowned, shook her head and looked at Claire. "Sweetheart. He never brings girls here. I'm always asking why he doesn't find a girlfriend to calm him down a little, but you're the first I've seen."

Claire could feel herself coloring and she knew she had some kind of stupid smile all over her face, but she couldn't stop from looking at John. John, however, was frantically making ridiculous expressions and gesturing towards Claire, then putting his finger to his lips and gesturing "keep it down." "Mae," he whispered in a loud voice, "ssh! She's gonna know I'm a cherry here!"

Mae gave him a strange look but Claire was laughing, remembering the scene with Brian from Saturday. "Remember, I think it's ok for a guy to be a cherry," she said.

"Mmm. That's right, I forgot," John said, stuffing a cherry in his mouth and rolling his eyes back into his head. Then he licked his lips, and then he slowly licked his fingers as he stared at Claire's mouth and said, "And I think it's ok for a guy to eat a cherry, so you see, we have so much in common." And Claire swatted at him and called him a perv, but could not stop laughing.

Mae, shaking her head, made her way back in the kitchen, but not before swatting John on the head. "I suppose you think you're cute," she said, over her shoulder.

John shook his head vigorously. "Nah. Red here thinks I'm cute. _I _think I'm a scary as hell badass criminal bad boy she wants to slum with."

"Hm." said Mae, "then I guess you're _both_ crazy."

Claire didn't like the slumming comment. She opened her mouth to say something, but John put his hand on the inside of her thigh, not high up, and just stroked her slightly. "Here," he said, as if his hand didn't exist, "have a cherry, they're great with a little whipped cream on them," and he took the cherry from the top of the soda and put it in her still open mouth with his fingers. His eyes suddenly looked a lot less joking and Claire could feel the touch of his hand on her thigh in every single molecule of her body. So she closed her mouth around his finger and quickly swirled her tongue around it, then let her teeth graze the tip of it as she pushed it slowly out through her lips with her tongue.

Claire chewed the candied fruit slowly as John stared at her with an open mouth and one of those looks in his eyes that half made her want to run away and half made her want to throw herself on him. Instead, she said, demurely, "You're right, that is good. See? I never even knew I liked them. Never even tried." She put her head to one side and smiled.

John's eyes widened for a minute, then narrowed. Claire felt a little giddy, like she'd won something. But then he asked, in a similarly demure tone, "so which do you like better, Claire? Blowing them, or just making them squirm?"

Drawing back, Claire felt like she'd been slapped. How _dare _he suggest—that she had done _that?_ When he _knew, _and she was just trying to show him, she was willing to try—new things. . . .But as she looked at him, he had the two straws and was turning them in his hands. Off her look, he said innocently, "The straw wrappers, I mean. What did you think I meant, Claire?"

"Very funny," she said, and she tried to roll her eyes but she couldn't quite pull it off. She swatted him in the head, too. His voice had a little edge to it, though. She didn't know why, she had thought he'd just like it. _Cosmo_ made it sound like guys would really like it if you did stuff like that. She felt a little flustered, and looked down.

John kept right on talking. "See, I woulda put money on you choosing—just based on personal experience—making them squirm. The wrappers, you know how, when you get them all tight and then with just a little—touch—of water, in the case of _straw wrappers,_ how you can make them squirm? But now, I'd say, maybe I got it wrong, and you have a little more experience with blowing them than I thought. Not like there's anything wrong with that, and not like it's any of my business. And hey—we don't have to choose, right? I mean we can blow _wrappers,_ we can make them squirm for fun, while waiting for the sundae, right? Nothing both of us haven't done before, right? It's not like you have to pretend you haven't." He was looking down a little fiercely at the straws in his hand, and suddenly the combination of the passion in his voice—which she also recognized was laced with something like hurt—compared with the straws in their paper wrappers made Claire giggle a little. John looked at her and tried to force a smile.

And then Claire got what as going on. She took a spoon, dug it into the float and got a spoonful of ice cream and root beer. She put it to his lips but he wouldn't open. "Come on, scary as hell burnout crush, don't pout over your straw wrappers. This is really good, here. Just enjoy it." He looked steadily at her, then opened his mouth and let her push the spoon in.

"Mm." He nodded.

Claire put the spoon down and took his hands in hers. They felt stiff and he didn't really move them, although he didn't draw them away. She took the straws from out of his more or less clenched fists and put them on the counter. "You don't have to strangle the poor things." She stroked his hands, then put her hand up to his face and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "You know, John, not like it _is_ any of your business, but you might be interested to learn that there's this women's magazine, my mom gets it, that gives all kinds of really detailed advice on—different ways to eat . . . fruit."

John grabbed at her hand and looked down. "Really," he said.

"Really," said Claire. "Not like it's any of your business."

John nodded. He looked like he was trying to say something and he was holding her hand so tightly it kind of hurt. "So, like, you might have learned—"

Claire nodded.

"But why—why would you be reading something like that?" He was still looking down.

"Oh, come _on, _a girl—even a pristine girl, you know—gets curious. Besides," and here _she_ looked down, not sure that what she was about to say was a good idea, but wanting him to know, anyway, "maybe I want you to wait for the main course and I don't want you to get bored or—you know."

"You don't have to—"

But Claire started tapping on the straw in its wrapper, easing the paper as it crumpled down. She put the straw in the soda and took a sip, watching John watch her do it. She smiled around the straw and he smiled back, shaking his head. Then she took the straw out again, placing her finger on the tip at the end, and dropped tiny drops of root beer on the crumpled paper, turning it into a worm. "Look at that," she said innocently, "see, I did always kind of like that. Maybe—maybe I more think of it as writhing, at least, when you make me—" but then John was kissing her, he tasted like ice cream and root beer and cherries and John Bender, and it felt so sweet, hot too, but also just sweet, his lips moving over hers and both their tongues a little shy, suddenly. When he broke the kiss, he took the other straw, ripped the top of the paper off, and blew the sleeve across the room.

Claire slapped his hand. "Hey, I was gonna do that."

John shook his head. "You don't have to."

Looking at him, Claire felt herself smiling. "Thanks, John, for saying that, I know I don't have to blow the paper off a straw. But _that_ I have done, lots of times."

"Claire, I _never_ want you to feel like you have to—do _anything _you aren't completely _crazy_ about with me, ok? I'm so far from bored, I just don't even, I'm _so_ into you, that would be impossible . . . Help me out here, Claire, I _suck_ at this."

"No, you don't." Then one side of her mouth quirked up with an idea. "You suck at this," and she put his straw in the float and put it to his lips, "right here."

John smiled a little ruefully, then nodded and drank, and then Claire put the other straw in her mouth and drank from the other side of the glass, resting her hand gently on John's knee.

"Thanks for pointing that out, Claire," John said dryly, taking a break, "I was getting all confused about straws and . . ."

"I could see that," and she smiled.

Looking down again, John said, mumbling slightly, "Claire, be serious a minute. I was really out of line, a minute ago. I know it. I'm sorry."

"So was I, I guess, with the cherry, that—that didn't work so well. I thought you'd—just like it. I didn't mean to make you mad."

"No, see, _that's_ why I was out of line. _That_ could _never_ make me mad. Look, just fuckin' enjoy this, ok? I'm out of line plenty and I don't always admit it. Or, mostly ever, ok? Like I'm way behind just on the day, and we both know it. But you—believe me, liking it is no fucking problem, I liked it, ok? I'm still liking it. You were just, you're so fucking sexy, and instead of just enjoying it, I—you were _so _good at it, I had to start thinking about how or who you learned it for, or from, like that should matter, which it shouldn't, but I just didn't like thinking about it."

John had said all of this very fast, very softly without looking up or moving. Claire didn't know what to say, he looked so lost, and tired, and young, and mad at himself, and she couldn't really tell him he was wrong, because he wasn't.

"John—I can relate, you know. I didn't like—at lunch, I mean, never mind, let's just say I can figure out how that might feel, ok?"

"No, it's more than that, not liking thinking about it turned me into a prize asshole, which doesn't take much, maybe, I don't know why I'm like that with you, when I'm trying to be—so much better. I never felt like that before, like any of this, I _am_ a total cherry, and I'm sorry."

"Hey, remember, I think it's ok for a guy to be a cherry."

He nodded but as she watched him, still unable to meet her eye, hair fallen down in front of his face, and she thought of his swagger, how cool, and confident, and cutting he could be—and she couldn't help but think how far away that seemed right now, when she'd been watching it and _wanting _it just a few minutes before. She _wanted_ that cool, confident, swaggering bad boy, he turned her insides to liquid and made her _pant_ with wanting him. But she also thought, when she fell in love with John Bender, which seemed like it was probably inevitable if she could just keep him from bolting in some fit of wanting to protect her, or himself, from being really happy, if and when she _did _fall in love with him, she knew that what she saw right then, that fidgeting, hunched over boy in a big awkward body, that boy who was now taking another drink of soda at a counter and trying and failing to get the nerve to look at her, _that _boy was going to be to blame.

So she leaned over and took a spoon of ice cream and root beer and ate it. As she had thought, that made John look up, and though he couldn't meet her eyes, he seemed very interested in watching her eat. And then she made a decision. "Why don't you come over to my house after this. I mean, you know, just to watch tv or something. Just for a while."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"I don't know, if that was trying to make fun of you, I don't think I was doing a very good job. It sounded more like I invited you to my house." And then it was Claire's turn to be unable to meet anyone's eyes. What had she been thinking? He probably had evening plans. He clearly wasn't always a soda pop kind of a guy, and she knew it. He probably couldn't _wait_ to get out and blow off some steam, smoke weed, maybe—find someone who _did_ know more about other kinds of blowing, just to finish what Claire could only really start. She felt a tremor in her voice as she spoke and she hated it. "Look. It could be some other time, I mean, I understand—it was a dumb idea, I mean, we're spending all this time together now, you know? I didn't mean to push you like that. I'm so happy you—you brought me here for soda, I'm so happy to be—I just, I was liking spending time with you, I didn't mean to be clingy, I—"

"Claire, did I say I didn't want to come over?"

Claire shook her head no but couldn't raise it.

"Claire, can you please look at me?"

She shook her head again. But then John's hand was on her face, on the side of her chin, stroking it gently before even more gently turning it back to his.

"Claire, sweetheart, can you please understand that the weird world you apparently sometimes visit in your mind, where I am somehow bored with you or wouldn't want to go home with you if you really thought that would be ok, can you please understand that weird world has nothing to do with reality"

Leaning into the feel of her hand on her face, Claire decided she _could_ look into his eyes, and maybe actually that the problem was more that she couldn't stop, because they were _beautiful_, and she was lost in them. She could feel herself smiling, "I'll try. But only because you said 'please' again and called me 'sweetheart.'"

"Did not."

The kitchen door opened and Mae appeared with the sundae as ordered. "Listen, canoodlers. Your on your own now, but dinner rush starts soon and you're going to have to cool it if you don't want the workmen giving you tips as a floor show, if you get my meaning."

Claire blushed, but John nodded, moving his hand and smacking it on the table. "Gotcha, Mae. No time like the present, then." Mae went back to the kitchen, and as soon as the door swung shut, he took a cherry, dipped it in fudge sauce and held it out to Claire. She looked a question at him. He nodded, suddenly looking pleading and serious even though he was trying to sound like it was a big joke. "Don't stop," he said, "you have _no idea_ how much I'll hate myself if you hold back on me because of what I said before." So she took the cherry and his fingers between her lips and sucked the cherry and his fingers into her mouth. Then she sucked the syrup off his fingers and watch transfixed as his eyes glazed over.

"I wouldn't want you to hate yourself, John," she said, and she picked up another cherry, dipped it in chocolate sauce, and held it out to him. She watched, fascinated, as he looked at the cherry on her hands, then looked at her, his eyes now dark, and focused, and a little wild looking.

"Claire, are you sure you want me to do that?"

She met his eyes. "Yes. Show me what it feels like. It looks like it feels good." And she kept watching him, his eyes on her deep, and steady, as he took her hand and guided it to his mouth. He kept watching her as he took her fingers into his mouth and closed his around it. His tongue swept over her fingers, curling around them and stroking them, enveloping them, and then sucking. His eyes looked like sex. Claire could feel this up her arm, throughout her whole body, she could feel it on her breasts and between her thighs and she felt her eyes close. Then he did what she'd done, pushed her fingers out of his mouth with his tongue, letting his teeth graze them, and she opened her eyes except then he held onto her hand and bit the tip of her forefinger slightly, then licked it, gently, so she could see his tongue on her and his eyes staring into her face and then she just nodded, yes.

Still holding her hand, he leaned over and spoke in her ear again. "See, Cherry, that is what I want. That is what I want more than any other thing. I don't feel like I need any other sundaes. All I want out of life right now is to put that look on your face, again, and again, and again. Are you ok with that?" He pulled back and watched her intently.

Claire felt herself nodding. Then she took a spoon and dug into the sundae. "I mean, duh, John Bender."

"Check! Check! I gotta hurry up and pay for this! Eat up, Standish, we've got places to be!" He turned to her, suddenly looking out of his mind delighted. "Do you think we could watch basketball?"

Smiling again, Claire nodded. "Duh, John Bender."


	14. Chapter 14

"Big hands, I know you're the one,"

—Violent Femmes

_________

John Bender wasn't clear about the physics of being this much on _fire_ while eating ice cream. He'd known Claire and her lips were going to look pretty good sucking on straws and licking cream and chocolate from spoons but he hadn't really even thought about Claire and her lips and tongue licking chocolate from his fingers, which was probably a good thing or Algebra would have been a lot more embarrassing that day.

Then there had been all that emotional stuff which was awful and painful and then not so bad as you might think, and it had meant Claire's hand on his face and on his hand in that way that made his heart want to break and melt and maybe do something all Disney at the same time. And then there had been the realization that Allison of all things had been _right _and Claire _was_ somehow insecure about him and although he found it a little painful when she couldn't raise her eyes to him, he also honestly found it _adorable_ and it made him want to just kiss her for hours on end. Which was just weird.

And then she'd invited him to her house like it was just easy, like there was no reason in the world why John Bender shouldn't just show up at the Standishes' for a TV night, and he was going, too, and he figured there might be a deep, soft couch involved and the possibility that Claire might curl up against him or even lie down with him for a minute and he'd feel her whole long, soft body relax against his.

All this added up to just one thing, of course, It all meant that he had to get her out of that diner _fast_ and up against some cold brick wall moaning and writhing within about thirty seconds or he was going to lose his fucking mind. He couldn't have said exactly how that math had worked out, but answer was crystal clear. Once he'd paid and said good-bye to Mae and she'd told Claire she was a good sport for putting up with him, and he agreed, he ushered Claire out the door, his hand at her back. She had paused just outside the door to fasten her coat, but he'd stopped her, leaning into her and muttering, "don't zip up your coat."

Claire had turned, surprised, and asking, "Why, I'm cold," and then she'd seen his face and her lips made a little "o." Then John put his hands on either side of her and started hustling her over to a little alcove he knew in the alley behind Mae's where he sometimes went for cigarettes. "Let's get you out of the cold then." She turned to face him, about to say something, but he could feel the heat coming off her body between their coats and he just said, "Let's get you warmed up," and he started walking her backwards, his hands at her waist under her coat, under her blazer. He saw her breath hitch at his touch.

"Don't you want to wait until we get home?" she asked, a little breathily.

"Do you live farther than two feet from here?"

"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Then no." And then he just started putting his hands on her. He slid one up her waist, over her stomach, then slid it around to her back, up her sweater, the feel of that much of her skin against his hand forced out a moan from him and he pressed her closer to him, which forced out another. His coat was open and her coat and blazer were open and so there was less material between their bodies than ever before and that felt burning hot to him. His other hand was trailing over her hair, then her neck, lightly skimming, and her eyes closed as a little breath went quickly into her throat and chest and he felt it there, her breath pressing through her body. Then he had his hand open wide on her chest, over her neckline, purposefully touching nothing he hadn't touched before but touching different, now, a little firmer, more rubbing, more friction, more skin on her skin. He wanted more of her skin to know what he felt like, and then he wanted even more of her skin want to get to know that feeling. He could feel his own breathing, hard and fast, and pushing his body into hers with each inhale, and then he watched as she looked at him, and then as she put her hand on his chest, just touching him through his t-shirt, looking curious and interested and turned on. He was about to kiss her when put her finger in the neckline of his white shirt and pulled it down just a little so she could, he knew, get a better look at the bruise she'd put on him, then she let her hand trail over that, and then up his neck, and she said, "The purple looks good against the white," and he said, "you look good against the brick," and he felt her body move under his hands, he felt her _writhe_ like she said he made her do, and then she sighed and leaned back hard against the wall, closing her eyes. Her head rolled back. "It's working," she breathed, "I don't feel cold any more." And then he started seeing white again in between glimpses of Claire rolling her head on her long neck and open-mouthed, slack-jawed with wanting _him._

Now his arms were on either side of her, her back was pressed hard against the wall and her front was against him as he pressed into her harder and he could see, and he'd seen it before, earlier that day, the day before, she _loved_ it like that. It made him want to hold her hands down so she'd writhe more, have something to strain against, but he didn't do it. Someday. Maybe. He took a breath, just looked at her, trying to remember that he was _not_ going to get inside her and fuck her up against the wall, that whatever it looked like her body was saying, that would be a wrong thing, a game ending thing even if she _said_ yes. But he couldn't stop from kissing her, and her tongue in his mouth was as wild as it had ever been. He started seeing white again, and could feel himself straining to go further in her mouth, and further into her, and he had to pull back, and then they were just staring at each other.

John tried to think, which was hard, what he could do to tell her what she did to him that he hadn't already done. He had to tell her without scaring her and without pushing her toward something that part of her was _screaming _that she wanted and part of her was scared of. He didn't want to keep backing away, but _showing_ her, hot and heavy like this, it was so easy to take things too far for her even when it seemed like what she wanted. That talk with Allison had put the fear of God in him about that.

And then he had it. It might be a little twisted—but this was _him,_ after all, and like she'd suggested, if she'd wanted a saint she probably would have gone elsewhere. Talking about his feelings _emotion_ wise was never going to win him any prizes, he'd done it, he sucked at it. Talking about his feelings _sex _wise, though, he was pretty sure was a form of communication at which he excelled. And that was what he was going to do, a lot of, and he was going to make her ache just a little bit like he was aching because _then_ he would pull back and _then _she might get it, really_ get_ a couple of things, just a little bit better.

Plus it would be fun.

So he started alternately licking her ear and whispering in it, still holding her prisoner between his arms. "_You're not cold anymore_. Listen to you. You know damn well you feel hot as hell, you can feel as well as I do that my hands are burning when I touch you. You _wanna _make me hot, too, but what I don't know is how you get it, how you get what exactly to do to me to make me insane. I think about you all the fucking time, I think about touching you, I want my hands on you all the fucking time, like this," and he put one hand on her face and trailed its open fingers over her face, and neck, and down her chest, trailing one finger between her breasts, then open fingers down her stomach, around her hips, gently over her ass, "I'd want to touch you all the time, and you wouldn't even have to do a thing. I wanted you like that on Saturday while you were still hating me, while you thought I was scum but I could see you, I kept thinking how good you'd feel, and I guess I got you thinking about it too," and he pressed into her a little harder, "And now you do these things, with your lipgloss, and your sweaters, and this scarf, and in the boiler room you made me feel like God should be jealous of me, I don't think I ever felt that good before and we were in a fucking basement and we haven't even gotten to second base."

Now one of his hands was back on her face, in her hair, trailing through her hair. "And now I wanna get you just a little worked up too. Just before we take the bus. Just a little payback."

Claire bit her lip and swallowed. Each breath pressed her chest closer to his, he could really feel her, there were only two thin shirts between them. "What makes you think I'm not worked up enough already, John?"

Licking in her ear and talking at the same time, he whispered, "You can still form words," and then he hitched her up the wall a little, so he was holding her up and she was resting on his thigh pushed into her. She gasped. And then she did what could have been just adjusting her weight but might have been a different kind of movement. _Fuck_ yeah, he thought, and he moved her like that again, and she gasped again. Then he held her still and started in on her neck, not with teeth but _hard_ with his tongue, pushing instead of sucking but licking a long line up, then a little suck near her ear, then a bite on her ear, then sucking, hard but not enough to bruise, down, below the neck, and she moaned again, he put his mouth on her collar bone and then just a little, full-mouthed but lightly, on the very top of her breast, above the line of her shirt. And she cried out. Chuckling, he trailed his mouth up her chest, up the front of her long, white neck, up over the chin as he let her back to the ground. Her mouth was slightly open and when he kissed her she kissed back and she ran her hands all the way down his shirt, then over his back, and then pulled him to her, then ran one hand all the way back up his front, over his chest, up under his coat collar and behind his neck, pushing his mouth harder and fuller on his. And then he pulled back, kissed her upper lip chastely, pulled his coat together and straightened out his frame. Claire was just _looking at him,_ leaning back against the wall with her hands behind her.

She looked, _really, _good enough to eat.

And he said, "Claire, you should zip up that coat. You're gonna get cold."

She let out groan that sounded much more like a pouty princess than the moans he'd gotten out of her a minute before. "C'mon, Claire, don't you want to wait til we get to your place?"

"Oh, my God," she said, "you're _teasing_ me. That's what you're doing. You did that on _purpose._"

"Would I do that? What on earth, Claire Standish, would ever make me want to do that?" He took her hand and started walking out of the alley. He felt high as a goddamn kite. "I'm so psyched. I think there's probably some _great_ college ball on tonight. Can we have snacks?"

He turned to look at her. "Look at you. You're still all unzipped. Here, let me help you with that." He deftly buttoned her blazer, then slowly zipped her coat. "There. Much better." John patted her shoulder in an affectionate, brotherly way. "It is _so important_ to retain as much body heat as possible in our cold Midwestern climate, Claire."

He took her hand and put it in his pocket with his and they started walking. Claire was awfully silent and as he stole looks at her here and there, she was looking a little dazed. John felt like he might start skipping or something. "Cat got your tongue?" he asked, innocently.

"Don't be so smug," she said, mock resentfully.

He steered them toward a bus stop, asking, "Bus to your place come by here?"

"Yep," she said, "or we can call a car service."

John looked down and shuffled his feet. But he really meant it. Calling a _car service_, actually, was not something he could even handle thinking about. Too different a world, a world where John Bender just didn't belong. And then he had one of those great ideas of something he might say. "You know, Cherry, that sounds nice, and it might even feel good—but I just don't think I'm ready for that yet. Maybe sometime later, but right now—do you mind waiting with me here? I mean, I know you're used to getting home faster—"

Claire leaned back against the bus shelter, looking at him, a little smile playing around her lips and her whole face doing that glowy thing. "John," she said, "in case you were wondering, I _have noticed_ that you can be the cutest person in the entire world, and you can just consider this official notice that I am falling for you so hard that I might hand feed you dinner, too."

"We shouldn't have soup, then," said John, and he leaned against the opposite wall of the bus stop. They just stood there, looking at each other, until the bus came.

________

AN: Thanks for the reviews! I have just one question: what kind of enormous selection of ultra-hip t-shirts do you imagine Woolworth's carried in 1985? I'm thinking Fruit of the Loom 3-pack. Just sayin. Now, I realize you international readers may no more idea of what I'm talking about than if I were my version of Allison—but Woolworth's was a cheap chain store and I just meant the white T-shirt to be realistic. Now that I think about it though, it's a total metaphor. How much do I love it that anyone cares! Enough to write a whole tiny "teaser" chapter.


	15. Chapter 15

Just last night I was reminded of  
Just how bad it had gotten and  
Just how sick I had become.

--Violent Femmes

__________________

On the bus ride, they sat facing each other in the back of the bus, their knees touching, and from time to time John would take her hand and fidget with it, like it was a little puzzle he was trying to figure out. He was going off—like it was some kind of very interesting academic debate—on the idea of whether you could really call it _teasing_ if what you were withholding from someone was a thing they would actually refuse if offered.

"It's a very interesting problem," he said, coolly. "What do you think, Claire—can you really tease someone by _not_ doing something to them that they don't want you to do?"

Claire rolled her eyes and tried to pull her hand away, but John had it pretty firmly and was rubbing her palm softly in a way that contradicted his mocking tone and both of them, actually, touch and tone, she found pretty irresistible.

So she decided to work on her face-straightening technique. "Well, I think the whole question—is ignoring some important points. It's assuming that people are like—just one thing. Like, you could be teasing a _part_ of a person, that wanted something, and the _other_ part of the person could not want it. Then it would still be teasing."

"I don't know. I think that hypothesis might be disqualified on the basis of not making any sense."

Claire stuck her tongue out at him. "Let me put it this way. Let's suppose going all the way—that there's more than one way to do it."

Off the suddenly intensified expression on John's face, Claire realized she had misspoken. Looking at her in that way that made her feel like she was being undressed, he started enumerating something on his fingers. He spoke under his breath, but it was clear what he was doing. She heard the word "doggie" and she swatted at his hands.

"What I _meant_ was, _perv,_ that let's suppose—it could mean more than one thing. Like, for one person, let's imagine a guy, going all the way would just mean—what you were talking about. And that would be the whole thing, and doing anything less could at least feel like teasing even if—even if the other person was just, figuring it out as they went along."

John started to speak, but Claire held her hand to his lips. He caught her finger in his teeth for a moment which caused her to lose her train of thought. She took her hand back and this time put it on his thigh and started drawing little patterns on his pants.

"So it could _feel_ like teasing to the one person, let's say the guy, but to the other person, it might feel like—getting used to something, a new idea. But it still really might feel like teasing."

John was just looking at her, and then he nodded slowly and said, "uh-huh."

"Ok," she said, "but imagine there was another way of looking at 'all the way,' that was more about—being with another person, like all the way, like," and Claire swallowed, realizing where she was taking them, knowing she shouldn't, and doing it anyway—because she couldn't _not__. _

"Like, 'all the way,' like, in feelings and, like, you're maybe on that person's side, more than maybe even on your _own_ side, and you, you care about them so much that maybe you—you give up other things you might have had, to be with that person. And you maybe, hypothetically, want to be with that person so much, and so deep, and maybe—long—that that other way of doing it 'all the way," the—thing that we were counting on your fingers the different ways of doing it—_that _feels like it could just be first base, compared to—or—without this other thing. Not like that's bad, cause first base could still be—all kinds of fun. It just—it wouldn't be going _all the way_."

Silence.

Silence was very hard to read unless there was a good reason, like a mouth on yours. John's mouth was far.

But Claire couldn't stop. She had to say something. She _couldn't_ have him doing things to her like what he'd done in the alley, and what she'd done back, without _having him_ and him _having her_ in the way she was trying to explain. Maybe she wasn't a "just sex" person, the more he touched her, the more he touched her _inside, _and she _wanted_ that more, and more. But only her, and only him, and no one else. She couldn't say—even to herself—that she _was_ falling in love—not in so many words—but ironically, _so many words_ kept coming.

Claire went on, barely at a whisper, "Also, basically, you could do _that_—what you were counting—with lots of different people, different ways, like you were thinking, maybe even just on different days—but this other thing, this other 'all the way' you could—you could really only do that with one person because, because," and she faltered, and found she wasn't looking at John, and he wasn't looking at her, and her hand had stilled on his leg, and he wasn't holding her hands. But here she was, and she'd better finish making a fool out of herself, now that she'd started. "Because it felt so much, and so big, and the one person took up so much of the inside of you, that there—wouldn't be room for anybody else."

And she took a deep breath, "And so, if _that_ was what 'all the way' meant to one person, then, maybe, the other person—who wasn't used to thinking about things that way, or maybe wasn't sure that was what he—wanted, well, then, the things _he _was doing or saying or _not_ doing or _not_ saying might _feel_ like teasing when really, he was . . . figuring things out as he went along or—getting used to a new idea and figuring out how far he wanted to go . . .Oh look, it's our stop."

And without looking at John, she slapped his leg and grabbed his coat by the sleeve and pulled him up and off the bus.

Suddenly, Claire noticed that the shops near her house had very fancy looking signs, they had letters carved in gold, with curlicues. She noticed the houses looked very large compared to some of the other neighborhoods they'd passed through. She began to feel nervous because without looking at John she imagined he'd be feeling nervous, too, not just at the words she'd completely failed to get to make any sense at all, but at the size of the houses, the manicured lawns, the length of the driveways and the cars in them. She felt like she wanted to touch him, hold his hand, reassure him, but couldn't because she'd just _exposed_ herself, and couldn't be the one to touch him after that. It would feel like clinging. It already felt like clinging.

And now no part of him was touching her and he hadn't said a word.

Then he said, in the same tone he'd had at the very beginning of the conversation, as if no one had really even said anything, "So, I'm not sure I followed what you were saying, but—to get back to my question, whaddaya think, Cherry, can you really tease someone by not doing something to them that they don't want you to do?"

At first, Claire felt crushed. But then—his tone, his distance, even his control in the alley, looking back on it—these things started to get Claire's back up. She was _trying_ here. All day, the last _two _ days, she was trying to talk to John Bender, to get through to John Bender, harder than she'd ever tried at anything in her life. And fine. So it had only been a few days. It felt longer. And she _had_ been getting through. And now—he was backing off.

Maybe she shouldn't have pushed but she felt like she _needed_ something and without pushing, maybe, she wasn't going to get it. And maybe she wasn't going to get it anyway, but then she should find out that too, so she wasn't so devastated as she knew she really could be. He was pushing her to want more, all the time—not pushing her to do more, but to _want_ more, but her wanting was connected to feelings in a way she wasn't sure it was for him. It had only been a few days but she already _hated _the thought of not having John and she barely had him now.

Anything would have done. Anything he could have done to let her know he'd heard, he'd understood, he'd keep it in mind. _Anything._

But no. He wanted to _play__—_then fine. "Teasing someone with something they don't want? I guess that depends on what it is. If it was something like, running your fingernails down a blackboard, then—no not really. You, for example, couldn't tease me by not doing that. Because I hate it. Glad we cleared that up. Turn here," and she gestured to her street.

"Ok, so—here's another question for you, Cherry. So, what if it was something—that you _thought_ you wanted—hypothetically—but really, when you found out more about it, I was pretty sure you wouldn't want it. Then would it be teasing you not to give it to you?"

Claire caught her breath. If he was still playing his little game, then Claire was mad. But if he was trying to give her that as an _answer_ to what she said_—_as a _no_ answer, but without really _committing_ to a no answer, but at the same time _blaming the no answer on her__—_she was going to be _furious. _

She could feel the mad coming on. "Oh, like you—hypothetically—would know so much more about what I want than I do? No. I don't think that's teasing. I think that's _stupid._"

She stopped in front of a large, tudor-style house with a sweeping lawn, an iron gate, and a three car garage. "So, we're here. My parents aren't home—they should be back later, though. I figure, we can hang out for a while, then have something to eat and watch your game. I have homework. You know—we'd just hang. And tease each other or something." Claire listened to her voice like it was coming out of someone else and it was high and hard and talking much too fast.

Now she did look at John and he was just staring, at her house, at her lawn, then at her. He was staring at all of them in the same way, like he suddenly couldn't tell the difference. He shook his head. "Y'know, I'm tired. Maybe we should call it a night." He gestured to her house, her lawn, and then to _her._ He might just as well have kicked her in the stomach. Then he looked down. "You know I don't belong here, Cherry."

The mad was coming on _much_ stronger now. She grabbed his sleeve—not his hand—and dragged him in a way that could conceivably pass for playfully toward her door. That could get dangerous, she knew—John was maybe more fragile than he looked, and this was her turf. But he'd _totally_ blown her off just now, and people didn't really—_do_ that to Claire Standish.

"I know, right? It's so naughty having you here. It makes me all hot. It's like bribing the janitor." She turned to him and smiled brightly, "Me, though? I belong here. It's like, this house, it's like, it's my _soul. _Everything about me, everything that is really and truly me? It's this house—well, and the lawn. That's me too."

"I can see that," he said, _as if there was a chance she could have been serious. _John forced a smile. "So you just—you wanna bring me here to mess the place up a little? Get back at your parents, like I said?"

Claire thought she might kill him. Or he might kill her, before she was done. She wasn't just losing her temper. It was _long _gone. "I'm so glad you understand now how I think—it's why I brought you here. So you'd see what I was really like. So you'd see—how lucky you really were, to be able to touch someone who comes from a house like this." She opened the door into the front hall. On one side, there was the immaculate, polished staircase, on the other, the almost completely unused living room. Everything in the living room was in different shades of cream.

"Cherry—" John's voice still sounded apologetic. She thought he might be trying to pull off stoic.

"The kitchen's in the back. Later we'll see if there's something—you know—_basic_ enough for someone like you, in there."

"Cherry—" there was now a slight edge to the tone, but there was also something—condescending. And sad. And _nothing _in his tone of voice was anything she wanted to hear right then. He kept going, like she was trying his patience. "I'm too tired for this now. I slept on a basement floor last night, I was up all night—"

"That's very nice, John, but why should you imagine I care about that? I mean, you're just like—the gardener, you know? It's like for me—it's like when my mother was fucking the gardener. That's what you are to me. Don't you like that? Isn't that what you thought?

"Are you _fucking kidding me?_"

"No. Why? What did you think? Well—not like I care, but you can tell me later. But for now—come see my bedroom. It's _really_ me. It's like a fluffy pink pristine princess—like me."

"Fuck you, Claire—" _There_ was a warning note, but he followed her up the stairs anyway. At least he wasn't leaving, but Claire couldn't believe _any_ of this was happening. How could anything that she was saying, anything that she said that was so obviously and completely and totally sarcastic and _heinous, possibly_ be taken seriously for even one second, even a tiny bit? Did he not understand, did he not listen to even one word she said? Did he not pay attention to _anything_ she did? He thought he'd turn her life upside down, make her change everything she thought, and then shove it back in her face like nothing had happened, like nothing she'd done or said made any difference to him just because she had a nice _house? _

She opened the door to her ridiculous room. The walls were white wallpaper with faint pink stripes. The bed had a white bedspread and was covered in huge fluffy white and pink pillows with one pink satin heart pillow in the center. The carpet was white with a pink rose pattern. On the wall were a framed print of a Degas dancer and one of a Monet water lily. There was a vanity with a light-up mirror and a pink skirt. On it were a silver brush and comb. On one wall there was a cork board covered with pictures of Claire and her friends and lots of Claire and her brother. Two silver framed pictures of her mother and father were on her bedside table.

"See? Here it is. Me. You can—come in and make it dirty or something. Isn't that what you're here for?"

And now John was in her face. "Take. That. Back." His eyes were flashing, he was taller than she was but she wasn't backed up against any door. He looked furious, and hurt—but she was even more furious and hurt that he took even one thing that she'd just said seriously. It made her feel completely hopeless. That he was angry, though, made her feel _high._ She would take angry over condescending and patient any day of the week. Especially when she was so angry herself—because _no one_ got to blow off Claire Standish. Not like that. Not when she tried to bare her soul—by talking, not by showing him her parents' house. Idiot.

But she kept it cool. He thought he was the only one who could use self-control and cool as a weapon? He didn't know who he was playing with. Claire turned from him and shrugged off her coat. She put it on her vanity chair. Her back still to him, she took off her blazer. That left her in her cashmere camisole.

"Oh, excuse me, would you mind turning your back for a minute? I want to get out of this skirt and—I don't like to change in front of the help, but then since I—I don't really think of the lower orders as people, I guess it's ok." John didn't turn around. He kept staring at her in an incredible mixture of hurt and rage and lust but Claire was so hurt herself she couldn't even respond. He believed her. He believed what she was saying. She felt like maybe she _could _hate him again, like maybe this week—this day, on a top three list for the best day of her life with some of the worst moments thrown in—had never even happened.

Claire unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, letting it fall to the floor. She was wearing nylons, she took those off too—but not in any kind of sexy way. Just like she might have if no one was there. She didn't look at John again but stood before him in her camisole and panties as if it meant nothing at all. She walked over to her closet and grabbed a pair of sweats from a drawer, but as she turned around a hand closed around her wrist.

"I said, _take that_ bullshit_ back, _Claire. Take it _back_ or—"

"Or you'll _what,_ John?"

His hand closed tighter around her wrist until it began to hurt and she winced. He dropped her hand like a hot poker and stood staring at his. He backed off. Way off. Claire put on her sweatpants and went up to him. She folded her arms.

"Which bullshit do you want me to take back, John?"

He didn't look at her, didn't answer.

She walked up to him and grabbed onto the scarf she'd given him and took it off his neck. She put it on the chair with her coat.

"Take off your coat."

John didn't move. He turned his eyes to her and she saw rage and she couldn't even tell who it was directed at.

She gave him rage right back. Her voice sounded less cool now, but just as taunting. "Take off your coat, John, and maybe I'll take back some of my bullshit. Or maybe I'll just let you touch me, again, like an extra tip for the help. Maybe if you take off your coat—you can make me moan with your rough, low-class hands, John. It's what I'm really after."

John stared at her and shook his head, then a nasty smile came on his face. "Ok, Claire, maybe you'd like it _rough._"

"Maybe. You never know. Or—maybe you're the only one that knows. That's right. You. The expert in what I want and don't want."

"You gonna take back all that bullshit you said on the bus, too? Cause that _really_ fucked things up. Why'd you wanna fuck up something that was so much fun, Claire?"

Claire narrowed her eyes. He actually couldn't hurt her that way. It was too low a blow. He must be desperate. She could feel her lip curl. "I thought you couldn't _follow_ what I said on the bus, John. You certainly didn't _respond_."

"Yeah, well, it was pretty _pathetic_ but I couldn't help hearing some of it. At least I wasn't stupid enough to _believe_ any of it. Like I need some whining little _brat _clinging on to me anyway." And then he was in her face again. "You think you're _better _than I am because you have a nice _house?_ You _fucking bitch__—_I won't even _sleep_ in my house and get near you—but that house isn't _me._" John _was_ taking off his coat. And as mad as she was, Claire was staring because he looked so _fucking_ good. Mad looked so good on him. It was making her realize what just wanting to fuck someone was like.

And she _could_ have stopped, because he'd said something she'd wanted him to realize, when she was just starting out. But it wasn't just about that anymore. She was just going to keep going angry and drunk with hurt and full on lust."Oh, really? Your house isn't you? I thought it was. Isn't it the same for both of us? The way you looked at me, and the house, like we were the _same? _Like I'm my house, right? Where you don't belong? With me?"

At those words John flinched slightly, then shook his head, not like a 'no,' but like a startle.

"_I'm_ supposed to be the superficial one here." She took a breath. "But _you__—_you were going to ditch me because of my _house,_ John."

Claire saw it, another flinch. And the look on his face changed. Like he was not looking at Claire, but looking in a mirror.

"Sound familiar, _Bender? _Sound like something _you_ think _I'd _do, to you? so you figured you'd better do it to me first—let's see, because you knew how good that would feel, and _that _was what you wanted for me?"

"It's not the _same,_ Claire. Are you _slow_ or something? I thought we went through how you were _never _going to compare yourself to me. Wasn't that one of our _pre-cashmere _lessons?" His arms were folded. He was in pure defense mode. Score one for the _fucking_ princess.

"Oh, good. I'm glad we're back to that. I'm glad we made so much progress today. I'm glad I tried so hard."

"You'd really try that hard to fuck a _gardener?_"

Claire went up to him. Now she was shaking. She wanted to slap him for saying something like that and remembered just in time it was _her_ phrase. She'd given it to him. She'd gone and lost her mind, like he said she made him do. She had started just trying illustrate a point, but then, when he'd believed her that she felt that way, she hadn't cared how much she hurt him as long as he didn't hurt her worse. And then, actually, _that_ had hurt. And now she wanted to _kiss_ him so badly that _that_ hurt, too.

He saw her falter. "So, are you going to hit me, Claire? You look like you want to. Maybe you figure _I'm_ the one who likes it rough? Or you just want to speak to me in a language I understand?"

She said, quietly, suddenly exhausted, "So which bullshit do you want me to take back, John—what I just said since we came here? Or _everything else I've said and done since I met you_, which is apparently what you _really_ think is bullshit if—"

"Claire, don't you fucking see I'm _afraid_ to believe you?"

And she looked up, stunned. All of a sudden, he had been completely honest and disarmed her and she suddenly wanted to beg him for forgiveness and just lie with him and kiss him and whisper in his ear that he _could_ believe her if he believed no one else in his life. But this feeling didn't last more than a minute. He was staring, startled, like he, too, was in shock he'd said it, but once she looked at him, he looked at the ground.

And then he started back pedaling times ten, and the way he did that, as usual, was to lash out, put her down, try to regain the upper hand. He even put his hands up. "I mean—I'm afraid to believe you want to fuck a gardener, cause I know fuck all about gardening, and now I'll have to learn about, like, _shrubs_ if I'm ever gonna _get_ any." He was literally backing up, looking for a place to pace, looking for something to hit.

"Nice try, Bender. You've made it more than clear you can _get some_ any time you want. You practically _got some_ in the cafeteria right in front of me today. But if_ that's _all this is about for you—" Claire crossed over to her bed.

"What, you'll fuck me and kick me out?"

"I wouldn't have to kick you out—you're always trying to walk out on me. All I'd have to do is let you leave."

"You think if I really wanted to leave you could stop me?"

"Well if you don't want to leave, why do you pretend? Just like fucking with me? Keeping me on my toes?"

"It is _beyond priceless_ that you could say _I _like fucking with _you, Standish. Think_ about it."

So Claire got up and got closer. He backed further away. He backed so far away he backed into the wall. He wouldn't look at her. But she had him. "Why are you backing away, John? Because you don't belong anywhere near me?"

"That's right. And at least one of us is smart enough to realize that." He was trying, she could tell, to hold on to his rage. But his voice was trembling.

She stepped closer. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "See, I think, even though you're backing away, what you really want, is for me to be close to you. Or maybe we just think about things differently, because when I come close to you, I feel like I _belong _there."

She looked at John's face, and he looked back at her with what she was sure was _total_ yearning. Then he closed his eyes as if he was in terrible pain. "Don't say any more things you don't mean, Claire."

That made her snap. "Why would you believe one thing I said when I was clearly furious with you and not all the other things I said that were the exact opposite?"

"Why would you say things you know would hurt me so bad?"

"The fact that you of all people are asking that question is the most ironic thing I have ever heard in my entire life." She crossed her arms.

A ghost of a smile played around John's mouth, as if he knew she had him there. But it wasn't enough. He shook it off and lay into her again. "So what's it going to be, _Claire,_ are you going to fuck me and kick me out? Are you going to hit me? Or are you just going to keep kicking me where you _know_ it's going to hurt me most?" And unfortunately, both the smile and the anger looked way too good on him.

Exasperated, Claire blurted out, "I can't even _tell _what I want to do because you look so sexy when you're mad I can't think straight!" She stared at him. He stared back. It was true. He looked so hot she couldn't move.

"Then let's _stop,_" and he was on her in one step, and he had one arm around her waist and one in her hair, "_thinking,_" he growled. And he pulled her mouth so hard against his it hurt. And she pushed right back, deep into his mouth and then the whole fight was all in teeth and tongues. Their tongues were so hard, and angry, and fast against each others and against their lips and teeth that it was hard to even tell whose was whose. It was like they were one angry mouth, devouring itself. She had her hands around him, running her hands hard over his back, grasping at his shoulders and arms, getting the sense of his body, she could feel it more through his t-shirt. Then she ran her hands over his chest and at her touch she felt him buck into her and what she felt in response was a shuddering kind of want that made her feel almost sick it was so strong. Her leg lifted up and then his hand was on her ass, squeezing her up and into him hard, which made her gasp_, _and then her hand was on _his _ass_, _which made _him_ groan like an animal, and then he pulled back and sucked on her lip. Then it was two mouths again and it felt like he was going to _eat_ _hers_, and then he was not nibbling but _biting _down her jaw, then her throat and then on her shoulder. Suddenly he whipped her around in his arms so he was pressing into her from behind and he had his hand over and across her and down her thigh—but on the front, not in between. With the other hand he was pulling her hair down to expose the skin on her neck and he was biting and licking the back of her neck and her shoulder. Claire could feel herself arch into him and against him and the moan that came out of her didn't even sound human, didn't feel human. And she knew he could do anything he wanted to her right then, and she wouldn't stop him. She felt like she might even beg him _not_ to stop. But then he held her still, and he started talking into her ear, holding her to him so she could feel him strain into her.

"Now, let me tell you something, Claire. I am so angry at you, and at me, and I am so turned on by you angry, that I could fuck you right now, and you are so angry at me and at you, and so _fucking_ burning hot, that you want me to. You wouldn't stop me. And it would hurt you, and you would be bleeding on me, and then pain or not, I would make you come through your eyeballs because I _know_ what you're going to like, because I can _taste it._ And you would let me do it. And then you would never talk to me again, you wouldn't be able to look at me, and I would want to fucking _die. _So no matter how bad I may want that right now— and it is _fucking_ bad, like I don't know if I could make it to your _bed_ bad—I'm not going to, because what you see when you look at me is who I want to be, and I don't want that to stop." And then he let his hand move over the front of her jeans, just flat, over but not _in_ her legs, and he pressed her from there back into him and he moved his hips and her hips together in slow circles. And then he put his other hand on her hip, then on her stomach, and then he moved up her front—not _quite_ touching where she most wanted him to but between, his favorite tease, "And Claire, I swear to God, when I start fucking you, I am _not_ going to stop."

"John, _please__—__"_ She didn't even know please what. She just knew she was _aching_ for it.

But he put his hand over her mouth. "You can't say that. _I _won't be able to say no, and we'll both regret it. You have to get away from me right now, go over on the other side of the room, and we both have to cool down. All ways. And then we're going to have to talk."


	16. Chapter 16

Oh, slippin and slidin  
What a good time now  
But I have to find a bed  
That can take this weight.

--Violent Femmes

_________________

John Bender sitting against the wall in a corner of Claire Standish's bedroom trying to squash a rebellion from all the parts of him that were a frustrated teenage boy. It was _fucking unclear_ to those parts why John had just talked himself out of what would certainly have been the hottest sex of his _entire_ life so that he could talk about his _feelings_ with a girl instead_. _The parts of him that were a_ fucking girl_ were no doubt thrilled, the teenage boy parts argued, which was good because John at this point was going to have to get off somehow or never walk normally again, so he might as well start getting it on with his own inner girl since he was so dead set against doing it with the girl who was lying on her bed across the room—the girl on the bed she lay in while she couldn't sleep because of thinking about him, the _hot as hell _girl who said things like "_please_ put your hand up my shirt" and who moaned like a _wild animal_ when he touched her through all of her clothes. Who moaned like an animal before he'd gotten to second base. Who made _him_ moan like an animal before he'd gotten to second base—just by touching _him_ through all of his clothes.

The girl whose last words were "John, _please."_ Right. Stay the away from _her._ Wouldn't wanna go _there._ You _prick._ Don't you see anything wrong with this picture?

John was having some trouble mounting a defense. It seemed really important at the time, he tried.

Right, said the boy parts.

Look, if I play my cards right, this way I'll get to fuck her more than once, ok?

And the chances of your playing your cards right are totally excellent, because next up we're talking about _feelings, _clearly your strong suit. Plus you can't even remember to invite her to a stupid poker game. Good luck with that. And don't even _pretend_ that fucking her more than once was why you did that.

Maybe not, John conceded, but I think she'll take good care of you guys too, eventually. I just—I'm trying to do this thing where I'm not a _total_ _heartless asshole_ to her for more than, like, fifty percent of the time. She's a virgin, and I think I love her, and—

Excuse us while we go to the john and get sick, muttered the boy parts.

Listen. I've done pretty well by you guys so far. You've seen more action than most, right?

Not helping us out right now, they grumbled. We want _her_. We don't know if you've noticed, but we're not really that into anyone else just now. Remember how there was that girl all over you at lunch and unlike everyone else in the world, we barely noticed? She's just over there on the bed, come _on. _She's so fucking hot for you, you can smell it on her, you _know_ you can. _Say_ you love her if you have to, _we _don't care, just _get us in there._

I'm sorry, but that is the _last_ thing I'm saying. I'm kind of more interested in why the fuck she suddenly hated me and if there's anything I can do to get out of it. John leaned his head back against the wall. I mean, I understand why she hates me _now_, now that I told her that her she was pathetic and clingy and had ruined everything and called her every name I can think of and hurt her arm.

Which is why, let's see—which is why you're so sure she'll be fucking you more than once? Come _on, _now's the _moment. _Before you fuck this up _permanently._ Think about how _good _she feels. Think about your hand up her shirt, and if you think _that's _good, in her pants—it's gonna be _so__—_

Let's compromise. If you guys will get out of my fucking way for a minute and let me think about what to say, and if you guys can not totally fuck this up for me and I can actually get this to work a little, I think I can pretty much guarantee you plenty of hot as hell angry sex with her at some point in the future.

But then there was another voice, this one not part of him but part of him nonetheless. "Stupid, ugly, no-good—you were on the right track earlier. Get the _fuck_ out of here. Who do you think you're kidding? Everything she said to you was right on the money. She's on _our_ side now."

"Shut _up,_ what are you doing here anyway?"

"Um, John? I—I didn't say anything, and I live here," said Claire, a little tentatively.

"I said that out loud, huh?"

"Um, yeah."

"Did I—did I say anything else out loud? Like, before?"

"Not since—no."

"Good." John put his head down on his arm.

Claire was trying to sound conversational and controlled like he hadn't just snapped at her like an insane person. "So—I take it you're still mad?"

"No. Cherry—I know this is gonna sound weird, I wasn't talking to you. I know you're the only one here. I was just—kind of arguing with myself in my head, and then—sometimes—I hear my dad's voice, in my head, I mean—I know it's not real, it's just—loud."

John was a little surprised to hear himself saying that stuff to her, but it was kind of like—he felt like he didn't have much left to lose at the moment. He felt weirdly close to her, too, like if you are still in the same room with someone after you do those kinds of things and say those kinds of things, you must have—something.

"John?"

"Mm."

"He's wrong."

"I don't know."

"I do."

"You don't even know what he said."

"Yes I do. He said you're worthless and I was right in what I said before and you should just leave."

"Ok, Claire? That's freaky."

"Lucky guess?"

"Claire, You can't really hear him. He's not really there. So what the fuck?"

"John, look. You think I don't know what he's saying in there? You think I don't have any clue? I pay attention. I listen to you—I know I'm up against him all the time, and—"

He could hear tears in her voice. He wanted to go to her. He wanted to kiss her cheek. That seemed pretty unlikely.

"John?"

"Mm."

Long silence. He wasn't sure how he was possibly going to say anything to her when she was so far away. And he'd lost the way of how to just go over to her. He felt so close and far away at the same time.

Then it happened.

"John, I'm trying, but I just don't know if I can do this—like this."

And there it was. Just when he had been thinking that really, if they were still here, it meant they had something. The sick, numbing sinking started in his throat and oozed down into his stomach. There was no father's voice, no teen boy voices, no Claire, no John. There was just this shuddery, numbing hurt and it was taking up all the room where his breath should be going and he didn't know how he could breathe. He had been afraid of this since he'd started caring, and it was _so much worse_ than he'd been afraid of.

He had been _so happy _and felt _so good _and even though he _knew_ he'd been a total asshole to her any number of times that day, he _knew_ he'd gotten some things right. He could close his eyes and see her face all happy and glowy and looking at him like he was the best thing that had happened all week and—he was going to miss that more than kissing her and he just felt like he couldn't manage to go back to how things were, before, he didn't know how he was ever going to feel good again. He'd have Vernon on Saturday and the week after that and the week after that and his parents and Allison saying I told you so and there wouldn't be any Claire to tell him they were wrong. There wouldn't be any Claire to touch his face or lick his lips and smile at how they tasted—there wouldn't even be any Claire to tell him that she wanted him for his low class hands. Which actually, now, sounded not so bad to him.

He really did feel like dying.

And then he felt it coming on and he knew he was going to do it, he was going to beg her for something, _anything, _and he didn't even care.

And here it came, he could hear how thick his voice sounded, choking on tears that wouldn't even get to his eyes. "Claire, _please._"

At the same time, he heard her say, "John, _please,_" and he didn't want to hear her ask him _please_ to leave. Then he swore he heard her crying and he wanted to die even more and then he heard his voice say the stupidest things,

"God, _please,_ I know I keep fucking up but I _know_ I can do better, I—I'll learn to plant things, I'll do whatever you want, you can go out with Percy and Chip and whoever you want, you can just meet me in closets, I—I can't believe I'm fucking _saying_ this but _please _give me another chance."

Silence. He got up to go. He put his hand on the door.

"John? What are you talking about?"

"I can't say it again, Claire. Don't _fucking_ torture me, ok?" He didn't turn around. He turned the knob. This just got worse and worse.

"John, _wait__—_will you _stop_ walking out on me? I _never do that_ to you! All I was saying was that I didn't think I could talk to you with you all the way across the room and I was trying to ask you to please come over here. I could understand why you didn't want to be near me and you'd told me to get away from you, and you told me you didn't want to be anywhere near me and I—I get why. I was going to ask you to be patient with me. I promise the very last thing I want in the world is for you to go any further away."

John turned around and stared at her. She had sat up on her bed and her makeup was a little runny, she wiped her eyes. She patted the bed beside her and tilted her head and tried to smile. "I know you sid you don't feel this way but I just feel _so much better _close to you—just, don't walk out that door, you have _no idea_ how hard I've been trying and I'm just not used to it—I mean, to trying. Please come over here?"

John was just frozen in place. He felt such waves of relief he couldn't even move, and then he felt his mouth turn up on one side as he hung his head and shook it. Then he stopped and figured he better double check. "I know this comes as a shock, but I might have misunderstood what you were saying. You want me to come over there, not get out of your life?"

"John, I told you, I would never need to kick you out, _you're_ the one that's always leaving. _You're_ the one that told me to get away from you and now _you're _the one who won't come near me."

"Claire—trust me, not all of me was really behind telling you to get away from me." He shook his head again, which seemed to prove that it was not physically spinning in circles no matter how much it felt like it was.

Instead of telling him she didn't want him anywhere near her, she was lying on her bed crying because he wasn't close enough. He could fix that, he'd like to fix that. But it was like he was paralyzed by the fear that any muscle he moved would mess up the balance yet again and instead of getting to lie there on her stupid fluffy pink bed he'd be out in the hall again wondering where the hell he was and how to get home from there.

"I—I know. You were being—I think you were doing what's called being a gentleman."

John Bender, gentleman. So_ there_ was proof that any balance that had ever existed in the universe was now totally off its rocker. So he leaned against the door, sighed, and broke into a chuckle.

"What's so funny?" Now he could hear a smile in Claire's voice and it felt so fucking good he could have screamed.

"Y'know, Cherry? I've been called a lot of things, but I can pretty much guarantee you that that was a first, what you just said."

And now the smile was on her face, and she was laughing, "I don't think it's really the worst thing I've said to you today."

"I don't know, depends on your perspective, I guess. In the wrong hands, that information might fucking _ruin_ me."

"Yeah, well maybe you should be a little more careful then—I mean, I can put it together with this stuff you're pulling now—oh yeah, he was my big badass burnout crush, he got in trouble with the principal to protect me, then he took me out for ice cream, then he turned down sex because he thought we should talk, and I should be ready, and then, I was lying on my bed begging for him to come over to me, and he wouldn't—he was like, the _worst, baddest_ guy _ever._"

"I know what you're doing Claire, you're trying to make me feel better—"

"Oh, yeah, right. That's _so_ what I've been all about." She shook her head. "I just thought it would be easier to talk to you if you were here, on my bed with me, lying against me, I could feel my chest on yours because _I_—I like touching you. You feel so good and you feel so good in that t-shirt, but—I'm not ready to go all the way so I guess we won't do anything. Maybe we could talk in semaphore?"

John folded his arms. He couldn't help it. He was enjoying this so much. It was the most insane roller coaster of a day he had ever had, and he had just begged a girl to basically let him follow her around like a lap dog and if she felt like she wanted to beg him to come lie with her on her bed instead, it was ok with him. "I don't know, Claire, I don't know if it's a good idea."

"You know, I know you don't, and you are—that is so wise. That's kind of what I like about you. You just—you think everything through, and if there's even one part of something that seems like it might not be a good idea—you just won't do it. Not John Bender. So even though you go on and on, 'oh, Claire, I think about touching you all the time, blah blah blah,' you're just not going to do it if it might interfere with our discussion. And I—I respect that so much. It's why I like you. Because of your good ideas about what's right and proper. Because even though you could _think _about touching me without actually doing it, like, any time of the day when we're not together, and even though now, here you are in my bedroom, my parents are out for at least another hour, and I'm in bed begging you just to come lie down with me, you're not going to be doing it, not John Bender—not while we could be talking _without_ touching. And you are so right."

John rolled his eyes and walked over there, feeling the stupid-looking smile on his face again and feeling his whole brain spinning again, this time in a much more fun way. This girl had his number so bad. He was so into her, he got to watch her watching him want her and vice versa and it didn't maybe have to end right there after all, and even though he _knew_ they really did have to talk because this was great but before was hell and they had to get the ratio down just a little better, he couldn't help but love the feel of being wrapped around her little finger, strand by strand, and then having her reel him in.

Standing by the big ridiculous puffy bed of this insane princess girl, John felt giddy. "You're kind of used to getting what you want, aren't you, Princess?"

"You have no idea. But there you are, still standing there, still not touching even one part of me." And then she looked at him more seriously. "All joking aside, John, did you really mean it that you felt like you didn't belong anywhere near me? Is that why you keep trying to walk away? Because if you really want to walk away, you should do it now or I just—it's only going to get worse. Do you really feel like that—like you don't belong near me?"

"Claire, do you remember a few minutes ago when I was begging you for something? Do you honestly think that I was begging you to let me walk away from you, or begging you to let me follow you around so I could—not be with you?" He could hear a slightly mocking edge to his voice but he hoped it would do the trick because really what he was thinking was that he loved looking at her. She looked _so pretty_ with her makeup a little smeared, her hair all tousled and one of the straps down on her little shirt thing, the strap on her bra was satiny and light purple and looked like her, her skin was beautiful and creamy and she looked so completely touchable and kissable but instead of making him want to fuck her like he had before, it just made him want to touch and kiss her. He knew he'd never, ever felt like that before. He had no idea how to tell her _anything_ about it, but standing there, looking at her—he felt like maybe that would be enough if he could just do that. Look at her and tell her that he liked it.

Everything would be worth it then. It didn't matter how bad the rest of it hurt.

He sat down on the bed and looked at her some more. She lay down and patted the comforter next to her. "Come on, Bender. All the way." And then she turned bright red. "You know—I mean, just lie down."

He felt himself lie down on the huge, soft white bed. Turning on his side, he watched Claire settle in and turn on her side too. And now that he was lying on a big soft bed with the girl he'd pretty much figured on Saturday he'd die or kill anyone just to get in the pants of, he found what he was wanting to do was look at her face, especially her eyes as she was watching him. She looked happier, more relaxed. He smiled a little. She really didn't look like she hated him at all, and she had really looked like that about a half hour before, and then she put her hand up to his brow the way he loved and brushed his hair away from his face and at her touch he could feel a tightness relax, but his breath quickened, and he knew it was plain as day on his face how good it felt.

"See?" She said, "is it really so bad?"

He shook his head and didn't break the glance. Neither did she.

Then she spoke again and he got to watch her lips move at the same time that she spoke and her voice and her lips were soft. "I'm going to move closer to you now, if you'll let me. Are you done backing away for right now?"

He felt his head nod. He didn't really know what had happened to any of his words or language because usually he had lots of answers but he was just lost in relief and somewhere those teen boy parts were muttering about "whipped" and he just figured if this was what it meant it was really not so bad at all. Nothing, nothing at all that had this girl in it, even taunting him, was really going to be so bad, at least not compared to that world that didn't have her in it that he thought he'd just been looking at. And nothing that had this girl in it, this girl who was really looking at him like she couldn't be any happier just to have him lie next to her—nothing was going to beat _that._

Except what happened next, as she moved her body closer to his, so that the whole length of the front of her body was just touching the whole length of the front of his body, and he knew that he was the first person to lie with her like this, and she was really the first person to lie with him _just _like this, this sweetly, and it felt like nothing he had ever felt on earth. It was like his head and his entire body was suspended in some other place where nothing bad could ever happen and all that was there was Claire and how soft she was and how good she felt and how her eyes looked at him and he _could _smell her hair and where it met her skin. He felt his hand travel up to her hip and just rest there. And they just looked at each other like that.

"See, I hardly ever do this with the gardener, John."

He actually appreciated her joking but he—maybe for the first time ever—couldn't say anything like that back. He just said, "I've _never_ done this before, Claire."

She nodded. Then she scooted over even closer, so that she was really pressed against him, and every single part of him felt so good, and so warm, and so trembling, and he heard a little sound come out of his throat, it almost sounded like he was crying, and his hand traveled up her hip, up the side of her body, and she put her arm on his, and he put his hand on her face, and he said, "I thought so much about how you'd feel against me like that, and you feel so much better than I ever thought, I don't even know how to tell you, Claire, but I wish I could." And his voice as it came out of him sounded soft, and strange, and not at all angry.

Smiling, she let her hand travel down to his hip. "See? You should listen to me more."

"I'm listening. I just—"

She put her hand up to his mouth to shush him and he kissed her fingers. He swore it made her eyes shine. "Then listen now," she said, and she rubbed his lip a little with her finger. "John, what_ I_ don't know how to tell _you_ is this—I am _so sorry_ for those things I said. They are the opposite of everything I've been trying to say to you for days. And the things that I've been trying to say—I _feel them,_ but I also know—I know you have those voices coming at you saying the opposite, saying I don't feel them, that I couldn't feel them. Those voices are my _enemies,_ and I—I got mad, and I—started fighting on their side, and you have _no idea_ how hard I've been fighting against them and—I know it would be hard for you to not let them win and I—I _hate_ it that I did that, I couldn't find words to tell you when you were so far away there, and I just thought, if you could see me, and feel me, and listen to how I really felt—it might help."

He felt stunned. He felt like he could never, ever be that brave, and that it was not because of her house that she was a better person than he was, but because she could be that raw and that real and that honest and not be so afraid that he would shove it back in her face or ignore it when he had _just done that to her_ _on the bus _because he was, like Vernon said, a gutless turd—not be so afraid that he would back off, run away, defend, deflect, that her fear would keep her silent.

And he was probably doing those things right now because her face started to look a little crumbly again and she _did _back off just a fraction and her voice sounded small as she said, "John?"

"I deserved it," he blurted, and then he couldn't say anything more because she flinched like he'd hit her. He watched as a big tear rolled out of her eye and down her cheek as she propped herself up on her elbow and bit her lip. She looked—stricken.

"See, that's why I should never have said anything like it. You don't need any help doing that to yourself. John—I'm not saying you didn't do anything wrong. You say plenty to hurt me. You can be—a really mean guy. But no one—no one else in my life, is really saying anything to hurt me. I mean—they're going to start, but that's another story. My current conflict with my parents is that I won't let them buy me a car. I'm not saying I don't have any problems—but I'm not sleeping on any basement floor because I'm afraid to go home and I _do_ care about that and I _know_ you know that. I don't have a principal terrorizing me and I never have to worry about money and—I'm not _saying_ that any of that means you should try to grind my feelings into the dirt like you sometimes do, and that is _not_ what I like about you. But what _I _see in you, is someone who is really brave, and fighting hard to beat the odds, and is a—gentleman to me, a lot of the time and—I'm babbling but—I could be mean to you in other ways, even, and—you might even like it, but not—like that. I started out trying to do something else but—I was—then I was trying to hurt you, I didn't care how much, and I did, and—I hate it, because—there's only one person in this room who thinks maybe you're not good enough for me, John, and it isn't me."

John let that sink in a minute.

"Claire, if you know all that—and you know I'm a mean guy, which I am—and you know I'm going to have such a hard time believing you even when you try so hard—why aren't you afraid to be with me?" This was the hard part. It _did_ help that she was lying with him, it probably kept him in the room but this was the part of the whole thing that made John Bender panic. Sooner or later he was going to say something about _his_ feelings and then he'd be even more exposed and even though he _wanted_ that, it went against every single instinct his life had ever taught him was worth anything.

"I am afraid to be with you. It's scary. I'm going to get really hurt."

"I don't want to hurt you, Claire."

"That's not true. Sometimes—you do."

"Yeah, ok. And maybe that _is _one of my strong suits. But I don't_ want_ to want to hurt you. And if you're right, and that's true—if I cared about you, wouldn't I want to spare you that or something? Wouldn't I want to walk away even—no matter how bad _I_ wanted not to?"

"_No."_

"Why?"

"Because you'd listen to me—if you cared about me like that—and you'd want what's best for me and you'd see that even though you can be so mean, you'd see when you're _not,_ you make me so happy, and you'd see how good I feel when I'm with you—not just when you're—kissing or touching me but just when you're _being you_ and you'd see—if you cared about me like that—that you're the best thing that's maybe ever happened to me, and you'd see I was trying so hard to change so I'd deserve _you_ more, and you wouldn't want to take that away from me because _you'd _know that I was someone who needed—to do a few things differently because _you'd_ pointed it out. You'd see that—even if being with you could be hard for me, or _painful_, that—for me, the alternative was _so much worse._" She sniffled, and then she wiped her eyes, "And if you cared about me like that, you probably would stop scaring me like that, because—I just don't like it."

And now, since Claire had been so brave and honest, it was probably time for him, John, to fail at that a little more. "And, well, if _that's_ all true, would you mind telling me why you _hated_ me so much a little while ago?" John turned over on his back. It was there, the edge, the anger, the pushing away. She was being real, and he was being an asshole. She was telling him everything he wanted to hear, and he wasn't telling her a thing. It was like he had no control over anything he did or said.

"No—I'd be happy to explain that." And there was a little edge to her voice, too. Maybe this was messed up, but much as he loved all that softness, John didn't hate that edge. Edge said caring to him. It was his language. "Plus, you know what? no matter how much I like you, you could make me hate you again—well, I didn't hate you, but I was thinking about it. There were a few reasons. Because you blew off what I said to you on the bus like you're probably going to blow off what I'm saying to you now, because you don't like to get all exposed yourself—you just like other people to be like that cause then _you_ have all the power. Then, I was mad because you were going to ditch me because of where I lived, which is, a _shitty_ thing to do to someone who might be nervous about it anyway, and which I would _never_ do to you."

"Give yourself a chance," he said darkly.

"Why don't you give _me_ a chance instead? Look—I haven't exactly been at my best the last—since we got here, I know but—you shouldn't underestimate me like that. It's all you keep doing. I know you have your reasons but you should—you should be on my side against them, is all. You could try a little harder."

"You think I'm not fucking trying?"

"No—" and she put her hand up to his face again and brushed it down his jaw. He felt himself lean into it like a cat and she smiled. "I know you are. But—that's kind of the third reason—the biggest reason I got so mad. I—I said something that was, like, the opposite of everything I'd been trying to say and do and change—I'm not just trying to change for you, but you were like—the catalyst, and it isn't a little thing for me. I mean—I know it's only been a few days and maybe I'm acting spoiled but—_I'm_ really trying all kinds of things. Not just with you. And so I say something sarcastic—like, to jog you back to your senses, and get you to stop being all—all pathetic, when really, you have this cute girl who just wants to take you home to her nice house and be nice to you, you know? I mean—a lot of your life sucks, maybe, but that part really doesn't, I would think."

John smiled a little and leaned back a little into the soft pillows. "You could have a point, there."

Claire nodded and went on. "And—I'm not going all the way with you, it's true, not now, anyway, and—maybe not ever, it kind of depends on you. But you don't—you don't seem to really mind what I _do_ do. I mean—I think it's not so bad, for you, with me, really. You like the writhing too, right? You don't mind that I'm studying up on ways of making you feel good, right?"

All the blood in John's body rushed right back where it had been for most of the last few days and he heard his breath rush in sharply and he _had _to answer. "Yeah, you're not wrong, there, Cherry."

"So—given all that, I just felt like—you didn't really need to be ditching me, so I said something absurd and sarcastic about how, the truth of my soul is _my lawn,_ and then you—_believed _it. Like nothing I did or said had changed anything about the way you saw me or what you saw in me since the second you walked into detention and started laying into me and my life and trying to get me hot at the same time which annoyingly worked. I thought you were _right_ about my life _and_ getting your hand up my shirt and then you thought maybe I _was_ my lawn—it was like nothing mattered and I completely lost my mind."

He chuckled. She really had. And she had looked _so hot_ doing it. _And_ it had hurt like hell and he had liked looking at it at the same time. "You're gonna lose it again if you keep going with that story." He turned back to face her. He felt like the location of his blood might be leading him astray but it really wouldn't be the first time. "So—let's get my hand up your shirt, then, Cherry."

She gripped his wrist hard. "I hate it so much that you are putting me in this position because I do _not_ want to trade _sex stuff_ for—for _feelings, _or—or commitment, or anything_._ It makes me sick. I hate that—you thought that I did that on Saturday and I hate it now. And I would _hate_ it if you—said something for a trade."

John thought pretty much he would hate that too and suddenly he had a huge understanding for Claire and what she'd said about him believing the opposite of what she'd been trying to say and how that had felt. Because if there was _one thing_ he thought he'd really tried to say it was—he didn't want her doing anything she didn't want and he was _not just about that _with her_._ He had kissed her on her _nose,_ and he had taken her out for _rootbeer._ He felt his whole body stiffen—in a different, less good way. He felt sick. But he kept quiet and she kept talking.

"But—for me, those things—the, sex stuff and the feelings—are connected and you just—I can't be with you like even a—little bit more than we have been, unless you can—explain a little bit to me more about how you're thinking because—it's scary enough without that—that not knowing. And the sex stuff—part of me obviously is really into it and loves it and part of me is a little freaked out, it's—a lot of new. But I—I want to be who you see, too, and I don't want it to stop either and that was why I was so hurt when it looked like you weren't seeing me. And I can't make any sense."

John blew his breath out of his cheeks and leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. Now. After all, this had been his idea. No fucking, just talking. Jackass.

"Claire. I suck at this so hard."

"I know it must be hard to compete with the intense standard of—articulateness I've set tonight," Claire said dryly, "But give it a try." She had noticed his stiffness and moved away. He didn't like it.

"I suck at this hard and you're not going to like hearing some of it and—and now you just pissed me off again. And you're not gonna like that either."

Silence.

"Ok, _fine._ I'm just going to start saying random things. Cause I don't know—I don't know what the fuck. I didn't think things like this could _happen._ I don't believe in this shit, I really don't and it's—it's all I can think about, or want, and it's making me crazy and _you're_ making me crazy and—_I _don't make sense." He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. "I never felt _anything_ like this intense before and—the _one thing_ I thought I was doing ok at with you, maybe, was making you feel like I didn't want you to do anything you didn't want to do. Like I would _hate_ that. And like—it wasn't just sex for me because—because one, if you haven't noticed _we're not screwing_ and plus I have plenty of just sex and it's not like I found that—not fun. It's fun. Those girls in my wallet, they are not just girls in my wallet to me, they are people and—we hang out and sometimes there's sex and sometimes not and they are my friends. I wouldn't be with someone I didn't like, you know? It wouldn't work. But if I wanted sex I pretty much have it."

"You know this is making me want to die, right?"

"Right. I know. I told you you weren't going to like it. Ok, so—to you, they're sluts or bitches or rockers or losers, like you and your friends talk—and now, I'm all into you and they will feel like shit if they find out. But I'm supposed to just drop them for you, except you're not even really with me because you said hi to me in the halls once, and it was, like, a big deal for you."

"Not just my issue."

"Right. Ok. So maybe I said something on Saturday and maybe I changed my _mind_ since then. But still. It's not like you wanna be making out with me by my locker and I even _understand_ why. But Claire—you've got guys coming out the ass with cars and clubs and hairstyles and—you've got, like, _reserve _dates for when you get sick of me but you want me to give up one of the things that actually made me feel good in a life that is not exactly made of that, you know? And you want me to give it up for someone who won't talk to me in public and doesn't know _anything,_ really, about my life and the hell it can be and how that can make me be an _asshole._ So I _know _you'll get sick of me because I'm a loser and an asshole to you and I have no money, nowhere to take you, don't know what to do, fuck up constantly. So—every time I start to walk out on you it's to try and do it before you do it first. But then the thought of not seeing you, not touching you any more makes me panic and none of that other stuff I was just talking about matters _at all, _and then I do dumb things, like last night smoke a dimebag of weed to try to get you out of my head which failed."

"I don't want you to get me out of your head, John," and she came over closer to him and started trailing her hand over his shirt and it felt amazing and he felt some tension start to slip away.

"Well, you don't need to worry about it because it's _fucking_ impossible," he grumbled.

"Why did you want to get me out of your head, John, mostly I'm—fun for you, right? You said before that I ruined something that was so much fun?"

"Yeah, you're fun, and you feel amazing, and the little things like—like your hand is on my shirt, and it's so simple. And I just—I feel now—I was so pissed off a minute ago and now I feel like nothing really matters if you'll just do that. This happens _all the time_. Like, I thought I was going to die a few minutes ago, like, you were done with me—which is an idea I hate so much that I am always apparently trying to make it happen—and then it turns out you just want me to come over here, when I'd just been thinking, how could I talk to her when I can't touch her? And it was intense, and then I'm looking at you, and then I'm thinking, all I ever want in life, ever, is to look at you, and then—you put yourself up against me, and I'm like, _wow_, _that's_ all I want in life, because I'd been _fantasizing _about exactly that in, like, English class, but it was way better in person, like, better than anything, so instead of wanting to die I feel like—I could die right now and be happy, and then—I don't know, you said something, and suddenly I'm all like, actually, if I don't fuck you _right now_ it might be the end of me, and then you say something else, and I'm ready to kill you."

"Wait just a minute," and she inched up and put her face over his and then put her mouth over his, and then, just softly, put her lips on his and then it was like his entire self went into just being kissed by her. He felt it in his chest, something was pouring out of him there, it felt light. There wasn't even any tongue, it was just lips and they were so soft and the whole place where she connected to him with her lips sent, like, trails of tingling sweetness all over him, and he could feel her breast brush against him and her legs up against his and everything cold and angry in him was melting. And she just kept kissing him, again, and again, softly and slowly while she trailed her fingers through his hair and down his shirt and he kissed her too. Then she kissed his cheek and his eyelid, and she stroked his face.

"How did you do that?"

"What, kiss you?"

"How did you make kissing feel like _that?_"

"I just tried to kiss you like listening to what you were saying just then—made me feel. Because I didn't think I could say it."

"It felt good then?"

"Wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah." John was seriously figuring he had to rethink the whole talking thing if that would happen afterwards. Nothing had ever felt quite like that. Maybe it was the love stuff, which otherwise could feel a little like the flu so it was nice it had an upside.

Still trailing her fingers over his chest, she asked, "So why would you want to get me out of your head when you say I make you feel so good? Why does that make you _mad?_"

"Well—last night I was just sure I fucked it up royally, and I didn't think I could fix it."

"Huh. Last night I was trying to figure out how I could get you to think about me _more__—__and _how I could get to see you _more,_ because I was _so _into you, you made me dizzy and excited and I wanted to make you feel better and better—and I lay here and thought about you in my underwear, with that scarf, and I put it all over me so you could maybe know that and think about it—"

"Wild." He turned over to face her and ran his hand down her side. "Where did you touch yourself, and can you show me?"

"Maybe sometime. For now, I want to you to really understand, that every time you think you've really fucked it up with me—including tonight when, really, you kinda did—the worst that happened was that I got mad or hurt. At none of those times did I think, maybe I didn't want to keep seeing you—or, be with you. _You_ thought that. And then you make it like it's _my_ feeling, and then you get all pissed at me because of it when what I'm _really _doing is thinking, 'why don't I figure out how to give a hickey because I bet John would be so into that.' Which is _not_ the same as thinking something like, 'I hope that loser doesn't talk to me, I'm so sick of him.' So what _I_ think is, you need more of me in your head, not less."

"Can I have more of you _giving _me head, Claire?" He figured he was about to get slapped, but she'd left it wide open and all this emotion had suddenly made him horny as _hell_ again.

"Well, not tonight, because—it's too much too fast. I do well with gradual. I—I learned that from Allison. She—she wanted me to wear purple lipstick and I was like, I could never, and then she showed me this whole range of purple colors and said I could start by calling it lavender. So—I'm still on lavender. But I _have_ been reading a lot of _Cosmo_—soit _might_ be something I could learn."

"I was kind of just joking," he said sheepishly.

"No you weren't," and she swatted him a little.

"Did I convey my confusion before?"

"Yeah. Did I convey how much I liked that you conveyed it?"

"Yeah. That was _amazing._ If I say something else difficult that makes me feel insane and awkward and terrified, will you do something else like that?"

"Yep."

"Ok. Turn over. This is going to be easier if I can't see you."

"Uh-oh."

"No—you're gonna love it, because I think I sound like a total twit and completely insane just _thinking_ about saying any of it. So after I've made a total fool out of myself and completed my transition into a girl, you're gonna let me feel you up—for real, this time, on the front of your sexy as hell cashmere thing that you wear to drive me _crazy_ and that is completely effective in that capacity."

"I just told you I didn't want to trade feelings for—other kinds of feelings." She sounded pouty but she giggled. _Score one for the burnout._

"Yeah, I know, it's your punishment for not listening when I tell you in a billion different ways, that I'm ok with waiting and I don't want you to go too fast and I _care_ about you and you'd better turn around quick so I don't, like, _vomit_ on you that I just said that."

"Sweet-talker," she snorted,but she turned over. Oh. Which led to a different set of problems because her ass was now pressed into him and his arm was around her and he could bury his face in her neck and hair and he _had _to do that, then he had to kiss her neck which made her hips move which made him moan and move his hips back and that was _trouble._

"Oh, God, Claire, holy fuck, that was way sexier than I thought it was going to be." He could hear and feel himself breathing fast and he was sure she could feel him straining toward her and he didn't want to upset her but really wanted her to know because one thing was sure, this was a girl who liked getting him worked up.

"You'll never learn not to underestimate me, will you?"

"No, I'm never going to learn anything because my brain doesn't work because you're so fucking sexy all the time. Do you know that for three days I've been trying to tell you about a poker game on Saturday night with Allison and Andy and some other guys not to mention get your phone number? And by the way I know all about your _plans_ Saturday and how Wednesday is really late to be asking you about Saturday, I heard all about it and probably you don't like poker anyway."

"John, if you're trying to ask me out, you really need to work on your technique, and did it never occur to you that I might have turned down that guy because I was hoping that you might actually want to do something with me on Saturday despite the fact that you hadn't said anything?"

"Oh. No. Really? I thought you had plans."

"Slow learner."

"Yeah, well, remember what I said about my brain not working? Did you really—just want me to ask you out?"

"Duh, John Bender."

"I don't really ask girls out, you know."

"How much do you think I love hearing you talk about other girls, slow learner?"

"How much do you think I like watching other guys put their hands on you in the halls?"

"Well, I would have no idea, because you still haven't even come up with a number about how many guys you want me going out with on a given week—you know, guys who are people to me who I might just sometimes make out with or get into heavy petting, but it doesn't mean as much to me as you do, who are more special."

"Claire, if you didn't feel so good I would—"

"I just want you to know that today, in the hall, I made a commitment to _myself_ that I would match you one for one. Whether I like it or not. Even if I don't like having other guys' hands on me either, I will. Just to be fair. So. If you want to be nuzzling your _friend's_ breasts at lunch, go right ahead, and—I'll find someone else to nuzzle too—at lunch. You made it really clear how you can get laid any time you want with all kinds of really excellent people that you care about that you don't want to ditch for me, and how I should be so grateful that you're with me at all given that, which is total evidence that you care about me because I'm not fucking you. But no pressure. I get it. I'm sure I can make a lot of people happy too, even without fucking. And—you, too. Because I like you best."

"Wow."

"What's the matter?"

"I want to kill you and die again."

"Why—I said I like you best? What's the problem?"

This, was fucking intense. He _knew_ he was going to say something wrong, this honesty thing was _hell_ and now he was lying in bed with this girl he wanted like _hell_ and seemed to be in love with and she was talking about her _commitment_ to making sure she did other guys and this was _wrong._ So wrong. Which might have been her point, but it was _different__—_he had already _been_ with those girls and they were friends and she was talking about just rounding up guys and just using them to get back at him. Which was wrong. But mostly it was wrong because he wanted her to be _his._ But he couldn't _say_ that. Because he didn't believe in it and he just _couldn't _say it even if he did because he was a gutless turd.

So he took her shoulder and flipped her under him and moved his body onto hers. She let him. She was breathing pretty fast too and her eyes had that wild look and she was angry. He held himself up on his elbows but let one of his hands grab on her hair.

"Claire, you'd better stop."

"I'm on top of you holding you down and I'd better stop before things get out of hand?"

"You can't just use people to get back at me, that would make you _such a bitch!_"

"I'll just explain it to them." Her eyes were staring wild at him and he could feel her panting pressing her breasts into his chest. "I'll just say—there's this guy, and he _cares_ about me, but he can't really decide if he wants to be just with me or with me and a lot of other people so he'll have them in _reserve_ for when I get sick of him or if he wants to get off while I'm trying to work my way up to fucking him—and so while he's waiting and deciding, do you mind if I just let you do stuff to my body? We can make out, and you can feel me up—and, you know, anything else I've grown comfortable with, I'll just explain. And you're probably right—most guys would hate the idea of doing all that without, you know, commitment and feelings cause that's, like, so their priority. But I might find a couple here or there who'd be up for letting me _use_ them like that. I don't know, school full of teenage boys—seems possible."

"Jesus _Christ_, Claire! I have to—" and then he started in on kissing her again and this was _not_ the soft sweet kiss from before, this was the kind of kiss that said mine, mine, mine, it was screaming it, he wanted every single part of her mouth with no more room for her to _say_ stuff like that, and then he felt one of her legs go up and he was _right there, _and he bucked into her and she bucked back and now he _was_ fucking her mouth with his tongue and she was arching up into it and her hips were moving with his and friction had _never_ felt that good before and he was going to get a little rhythm going and he now had no memory of anything else that was happening except that this was _his_ and that was how she wanted it and she was a _bitch_ and he _loved _her.

Which stopped him cold again, and he pulled back, and rolled over onto his back, and took her hand, and said, "It was an accident. I just kind of slipped."

Claire laughed between panting. "I think I slipped too. I mean—I didn't actually mean to say any of that. It just—slipped out."

"Claire, it was as long as the fucking _Chicago phone book_."

"I know, it was a long slip. And I was making you jealous and that was _so wrong._"

"Claire, I didn't even know what I was doing at lunch, I was—that asshole put his hands on you in front of me, who has a car and places to take you, I don't even remember the next half hour."

"Well, since you don't even believe in the one guy one girl thing, there must be some other explanation than jealousy. Hey, John, do you think you could manage to tell me what you needed to say without talking about your seventeen other girlfriends while you lie in my bed with me and how fun it's been to have just sex with them? Because I know how important it is to you that I understand your important feelings about all the girls you fuck but I think it might be better to just leave them out for a while."

"Wow."

"Too much to ask?"

"No. I just—I am in _so much trouble._"

"Slow learner."

"Claire, for the—I'm _not thinking _about other girls. I'm not thinking about _anything _except you, it isn't even—when I say I'm crazy about you I'm just being literal, I—I was just—"

"Wait, can you say that middle part again?"

He smiled. He really could say that again. That was pretty simple. "The part about how I'm crazy about you?"

Sighing, she sank back deeper into the bed and he got up on his elbow to look at her. She smiled at him and had that glowy look and said, breathily, "yeah."

Bending down, he let his hand wander up to her stomach and let it feel a little skin there beneath the soft sweater. She breathed in a little sharply and he put his lips on hers and this time she opened her mouth to him and their tongues just played with each other gently a minute while his hand played with the edge of her sweater and the little strip of skin underneath it. Suddenly he felt perfectly happy. "Apeshit," he said, between kisses.

"Sweet-talker," she said, and smiled and bit her lip. She looked shy, and she looked _so_ happy again, too. So maybe he was batting about 300. Could be ok.

"Certifiable," he said and kissed her again and then trailed back kisses to her ear. "I'll prove it," he said, and turned her over again.

Ok. Now, he really was probably royally going to fuck up again by doing something like explain to a girl how she could tell how much he cared because he could be fucking all these other girls at the moment but wasn't so that he could lie here and not fuck her. What had she said? He might want to work on his technique. Plus the thought of saying anything like he was going to say was making the flu aspect of the love thing much stronger and really he should probably go and have a cigarette and maybe smoke a bowl instead, or he could probably get in a game of pool somewhere if he left right now and hell. Hell, hell, hell.

"Ok, Cherry. Any of this ever gets out—like, to Allison, or Andy, or your teddy bear, I will hunt you down and torture you the way I know how."

"Sweet talker strikes again."

John chuckled in spite of himself and buried his face in her hair. Maybe they could just leave it like that. _Gutless._

"Shut _up._"

"John? Not saying anything."

"Right. Sorry. Just someone in my head. Ok. So—let's get back to hypotheticals, ok? So, like imagine there was someone who'd been listening to someone on a bus. Let's say he's this asshole guy. No. Wait. That's way too obvious, you'll figure that out right away. Let's say he's a—three-toed sloth."

He felt Claire's body against him shaking with a little laughter. "A _sloth?_"

"A hypothetical sloth. Yeah. With three toes. So, there was a hypothetical sloth on the bus listening to someone talk, but because he's all slow it might have seemed like he wasn't listening, hypothetically. But he had been talking shit, like he usually does, joking, but like—with a—potentially almost serious point that could still be totally denied or avoided, if anything got serious, because that's how he talks about stuff. So there's always an out. Because this sloth although he might do ok with the big dramatic gestures is chickenshit about really scary stuff like—well. Whatever, he is."

John felt Claire shift and then he felt her hand cover his, which was actually kind of forming a fist on the bed near her even though his arm was around her. She started doing that gentle rubbing thing that could make his hand relax a little. He took a deep breath. Where the fuck had he gotten a sloth from? Oh, yeah. Sixth grade. Oral report. Genius, Bender.

"So anyway. The sloth is listening, but what he hears is like—completely out of pace with his life, because it sounds—intense. And like, with lots of feelings. And—mostly, being a sloth, his life is about trying not to feel stuff, so he might hypothetically do stuff like smoking different things and drinking and wearing dark glasses and mouthing off and fighting—cause that kind of keeps people at a distance, which, might be important. Cause maybe—on the inside, the sloth _might_ have some . . . potential for strong feelings but mostly the ones he has about his life and the people who are _supposed_ to be closest to him are . . . not good. So—say he picks one feeling and that's the only one he's really going to have. Let's say he gets angry, so everything—would end up angry, if it had to be a _strong _feeling. But better than that, it would just end up fuzzy and high and slow, up in a tree, kind of hanging out by himself, mostly, maybe hanging with some other sloths, that were also into being fuzzy, and high, and slow. Like that."

"John, the sloth sounds . . . sad."

"Well, he might be sad if he weren't so high all the time. But mostly if he gets sad, he gets high right away or the sadness turns on a dime to angry, so it's ok. So, mostly, the angry part comes in—when he has to come down from the trees and deal with the real ground because sloths are—really fucking awkward on the ground, they're slow, they can't hang out, they don't know what the fuck to do—everything feels all intense and they are _defenseless, _all they can do is lash out with their three toes, which are actually these long, sharp claws. They really hurt. But the sloth is so—obsessed with being defenseless on the ground, that anything that comes up to the sloth is probably going to get the claws because it might be something going to hurt the poor, awkward, chickenshit sloth. Sloth can't tell the difference, or the sloth thinks anything that's going to touch it is going to hurt it anyway."

Now Claire was just holding his hand.

"So anyway. Who knows how such a pathetic creature gets on the bus with this person—let's say she's a princess—but he does, and he's been trying not to lash out with his three toes because the princess pets his fur in this really nice way and makes him feel _so good_ it's enough to make him wish he was something else besides a sloth. But she makes even being a sloth feel—not just fuzzy and high, but _good._ But still. He's a sloth. She's a princess. He knows it's never going to work, but she keeps petting his fur and he's totally powerless to stop her because nothing, ever, felt that good in his life. And he realizes that now he's having these strong feelings that are good instead of bad, and somehow this means he has to be on the ground, because the feelings are all real, and he's afraid that the trees where he feels comfortable will now seem—really lame now, compared to these good feelings. So he's terrified, and defenseless, and knows he's all awkward, and can't help lashing out with his claws because it's all he knows how to do. He doesn't really have soft hands or even toes. They're just these sharp claws."

"When I hold them, they get softer," said Claire, barely audible.

"No, see, that's my hand. I'm talking about this hypothetical sloth, I can see why you would be confused, but try to keep it straight, ok? So—the sloth knows all this, and he's listening to the princess who's trying to say something important, and just the fact that she's struggling to say something important to him is so—important to the sloth that it makes him ache inside. But you wouldn't know this by looking at him because he's kind of climbed back up into his tree again, and looks like he's just spacing out, even though he's really listening."

"And what he's hearing in his hypothetical way is blowing his slow, fuzzy mind, because it sounds—really intense to him, and like maybe _this _is what he was trying not to want all that time he was in the trees, and as he's thinking, he's feeling in this new strong way and thinking, yeah, I want _that,_ he's thinking that going all the way in_ both_ ways would be—amazing, and intense, and he would just go and go and go further, and this princess would be the one he'd want to go with, because actually, _she's_ brave and much stronger than she looks and it could be an—_amazing _feeling to have someone like that on your side, it would feel so different from being alone all the time, and it makes the sloth feel like if he were on the princess's side then he would actually be braver and fight for better reasons. And because she looks all flustered and—beautiful, on a bus, a little out of place there, like he feels _he_ is, he wants to kiss her all over and say, yes. But he doesn't. Because he's a chickenshit sloth, and he's slow, and his words don't work and he's on the ground so he's going to lash out because it's all he knows how to do, and he knows that it's not going to work with a princess and him, because he's a _fucking sloth,_ and now he wants it to work more than anything he's ever wanted, and nothing else is going to feel alright to him, but instead of saying anything like that, he climbs up farther into the tree and, like, pisses on the princess. Because that's the kind of idiot creature he is. He doesn't know what to do. He's terrified. And now whatever he does he's going to feel that loss and pain but maybe she could just pet him for a little while longer—and he tries to go back to that—but then she shows him the castle she lives in and he realizes how completely ridiculous the whole thing is, sloths don't do well outside their native habitat, and he suddenly just wants to get high again—in a tree. But she drags him into her castle and calls him out on being a sloth and then he starts messing the castle up and—so anyway. That's what the sloth was thinking. Me, though? I just kind of thought you were talking shit. But if you wanna go all the way with _sex,_ let me know because you feel about seventy different kinds of good here, Claire, and I'm horny as hell."

Claire turned to face him and put her arms around him, his arms were around her too and all her softest parts were right up against him. She put one of his hands up and brushed the hair out of his eyes again, probably just because he said the sloth felt like he couldn't resist it. She probably liked his use of the word "powerless."

"John?"

"Yeah."

"So you really did mean the crazy in a literal way."

"Yeah. So you do listen."

"Yeah. I listen to—what was the phrase? Oh, yeah. Every. Fucking. Word."

"You must have been really bored. I talked _forever._"

"It was incredibly boring. But I managed. You know, it's good you're not a sloth, because otherwise that story could have made me feel really sad. And then, there'd be this weird rainforest mammal in my bed and I'd be all, eek! instead of there being this scary as hell burnout crush, and I'm all, _mmm._"

"Mmm?"

"Mmm. Definitely. And I think the way that our bodies line up here, I don't think it would feel this amazingly good and exciting and sexy if we weren't the same species, because that's what all these feelings are supposedly for—you know, for the species."

Every single inch of his body was alive and turned on and humming and so was his brain but it also felt—_calm._ Like she said. Like _belonging._ He felt like he'd try something different and not back off and not go _harsh,_ even though it did feel hot that way. Maybe he could take a page from the sloth book and go _slow._ Like that could be sexy as hell too. It would mean lying here like this, with her, and having her to talk to and kiss and look at and she would just _like_ him, like this. He could relax into it a little. He moved one arm down her body, not to get anywhere, just to feel it there, her. Kissing her neck a little, he asked, "Can you say that middle part again?"

"Amazingly good and exciting and sexy?"

"Yeah. That part. Do you really feel like that?"

"I think you're supposed to be telling me that. Do I?"

"Claire, if you know anything at all about the male anatomy, I already am telling you that."

"John, what I know about the male anatomy of a teenage boy tells me basically that a cabbage could have that effect."

John felt his body shake with a chuckle. "Not me. I had this big argument with my teenage boy parts earlier, and they made it pretty clear that it was all about you right now. They weren't too pleased with my—gentlemanly behavior, by the way."

"Well—I can see that. Did you tell them I would like to take care of them if—if the rest of you can stay out of your own way and remember that we're the same species, and there's nothing stopping us from being together as much as you want to, except you?"

"Huh. I didn't, because—mostly because at the time, like, half an hour ago, you mostly hated my guts. Plus maybe not just the sloth is chickenshit. But, Claire—this is not pressure but, what are you afraid of? I mean, with—going all the way, the—the ones I was counting on my hand before. I just—I really want to know." He really did.

"Well, to the extent that you feel in any way like your hypothetical sloth, why are _you_ afraid of getting something that you know you want, that someone has said you could have if you wanted?"

"Asked you first."

Claire sighed and rolled her eyes. "Why does this seem so familiar? Ok. I guess—I'm afraid of having someone—inside me. Like, physically, I'm afraid of that, and—it's a new idea. And for me it's—not just going to be physical and there's—all these feelings that go with it and if I try to do it without the feelings then I think what will happen is that—the feelings will just go away. Like if I did it too fast, it might feel good, but then—afterwards, it wouldn't. Then—it's new, and it's a _big_ deal and—I don't know if you feel the same way, it might not mean the same thing, and—I might not be any good at it, you might not like me after all, you might just like me because I'm something you thought you couldn't or shouldn't have and—then, when you had it, you'd realize, you didn't want it after all. And in that case, I would have rather had less, so I didn't feel like I lost so much." She sighed. "I guess that's about it. But I like—all these other things too, and there's things I was afraid of that I'm not any more and—it's not like I don't _want_ to, and not all of me was pleased with your being a gentleman, either—but I was really, impressed, and—touched. That you were."

She smiled at him and did that shy lip bitey thing and said, "Did that make any sense? I feel all awkward now. I don't want you to be mad at me. So now _you_ have to answer."

"My answer is, exactly what you just said."

"Oh." Claire took a deep breath and looked up at him softly. "I think I kind of love—that."

"Except that, you know, I conquered my terror of sex a while back so, anything you want, you just say the word," and he thrust into her a little, but just lightly.

"Ok." She leaned up and kissed him on the mouth, running her tongue over his lips, and then over his teeth, and then into his mouth and over his tongue and he could press her up closer against him because both of his arms were around her. And so he did press her up closer against him, but slowly, and their legs tangled a little bit, but in a soft, relaxed way. It was nice that he didn't have to worry and no bell was going to ring and they still had he guessed at least a half an hour before her parents got home, and he didn't have to rush to get anywhere with her because—it wasn't about any endgame. It just felt good. He slowly moved his hand down her back, over her ass, rubbed her there and enjoyed how he could feel in the way she moved her tongue and her body that she liked that.

"Claire, I'm really glad I'm not a sloth, too, because you feel _amazing_ and I'm sorry if I act like an asshole just because I can't believe that I get to actually feel anything this good." He was really glad there was no tape recorder anywhere in the room because that would probably right there be enough to kick him out of guydom forever.

"It's—well, it's not a hundred percent ok, because I want you to believe it, but I'm starting to understand a little better. And John, one more thing?"

"Yeah?"

"John, could you _please_ put your hand up my shirt?"

_______

AN/ Ok, so that was pretty much my _entire_ weekend, so if I were you, I would review the hell out of it. And then for those that like it, there might be a little M-rated "16b" chapter in your future, if you're good, a sort of b-series for the rest of this little fic, something like "_Really_ Good Feelings--the B sides."


	17. Announcing Really Good Feelings 16b

AN: This is just to announce that I did, as promised, write a little M-rated supplement to chapter 16 that is now posted under the fic titled "Really Good Feelings." If you're not old enough, or that doesn't float your boat, you won't need anything there to keep up with this story. Could be summarized by "and then they fooled around for a while longer." This will be true of any other chapters I post there, as well.


	18. Chapter 17

you can all just kiss off into the air,  
behind my back I can see them stare  
they'll hurt me bad, but I don't mind  
they'll hurt me bad, they do it all the time.

--Violent Femmes

______

It was more than seeing double. Claire Standish was living double.

There she was, in the same drab halls as always, laughing with her friends and keeping an eye on Ruth-Ann's sneer. Wondering if everything about the way she looked was screaming, Claire Standish was in bed with a boy last night. Wondering if the boy was there, somewhere, in the hall, looking for her too.

That was half of where she was.

In the world behind her eyes, Claire was back in her kitchen, frantic, ransacking the refrigerator, all her courage and confidence suddenly evaporated. What did you feed a Bender? A sandwich seemed cold, unfriendly. Paté would probably freak him out. Steamed vegetables or a salad, which Claire often chose, might be ok for a hypothetical sloth, were going to cut it for a hungry seventeen year-old boy. There was some leftover roast, but that would seem like she was stereotyping him, like he could only eat meat and potatoes or something. Like she'd suggested before, because she was a total bitch. So that might have been what he'd like, but now she felt like she shouldn't give it to him.

On the other hand, Beluga caviar meets John Bender? Right.

In the hall at school, Claire caught Brian Johnson's eye. Brian was standing down the hall with some geek friends, she saw him blush slightly and look down as she caught him looking toward her. She smiled and whispered something to Bethany. Her friend looked startled, skeptical, and darted a glance at Ruth-Ann, who looked annoyed at being left out.

Claire shrugged. "C'mon, I totally owe him and it will change his life."

As she and Bethany sashayed up to a quickly reddening Brian, Claire remembered how last night every kind of food had seemed laden with messages or strong, unfamiliar tastes. Where was the food that made a boy want to stay with you? Tears had been pricking behind her eyes, her breath coming fast and in gasps. As if somehow her entire life and happiness depended on finding exactly the right meal to feed John Bender while he watched television on the rec. room couch.

In the hall, Claire and Bethany were knee-deep in math geek. The gangly boys were staring at them as if angels or aliens had suddenly walked among them with no warning. The girls, however, focused all their attention on Brian.

"Hey, Brian Johnson," said Claire, infusing her standard flirtatious greeting with a little extra warmth and tease.

"Um, hey. Hey. Claire and, um," Brian managed to get out.

"I was telling my friend here how much fun we had in detention, and she wanted to meet you. So Bethany, this is the famous Brian Johnson."

Bethany smiled her biggest, most boywinning smile. "It is a real pleasure, Brian. Claire m'a dit que tu es étudiant de français, c'est vrai?"

Blushing even more furiously, Brian stiffly answered, nodding, "C'est un tel grand plaisir de faire votre connaissance."

Claire stole a glance at Brian's friends. Two of them had jaws open practically down to their knees. Bethany turned to Claire, smiling more genuinely now. "Hey, he's got a really good accent. Awesome. You know I think that's kind of sexy." She turned back to Brian. "But you can say "tu" to me, I said it to you and we're both students." She turned to his friends. "'Tu' is the familiar form, you know?"

"So Brian," Claire said in the same flirtatious voice, "Bethany and Allison and I are having a sleepover on Friday night. We thought we'd watch some French movies. Do you think you'd want to stop by, talk a little French?"

"Pas mal de quoi?" Brian sounded a little dazed.

Bethany laughed. "Super."

Claire poked Brian. "Aren't you going to introduce us to your friends?"

Claire tried to pay attention to Brian's friends' names, but in her mind she heard John Bender's footsteps coming down from her bedroom just at the moment she had realized that ravioli might be the answer. She had seen, suddenly, how she would spoon it onto a plate and he would be grab for it and she would swat his hand and tell him not to be so eager, what was his hurry? And then she would pop a forkful into his mouth and he would smile and he would say, That's fucking delicious, if you have ravioli like that I don't know why I would ever want anyone but you . . .

Claire nodded to Brian's friend, she thought his name was Lenny. "Yeah, Brian kept us all in stitches on Saturday. He's a riot. He and John Bender. What a pair." Lenny's eyes got a little wider.

Claire had been watching the ravioli through the microwave window when she realized John was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She didn't need to turn around to know it. She could feel it in the hairs on the back of her neck. All Claire wanted was to appear relaxed and casual and not at all freaked out, to not look like someone who was always wanting to have emotional discussions. She couldn't pull it off, she was afraid, she felt shy and awkward. How could you feel awkward around the same boy you'd just been—fondling in bed?

Did he like what he saw? Did she look awful with her hair messed up?

In the hall, Claire suddenly felt the same eyes on her, she felt them again on the back of her neck, each little hair standing at attention. As she was talking and flirting with the biggest geeks in the school, butterflies broke out again under every part of her skin and she felt her heart racing, her blood pounding, her hand wandering up to her throat where his mouth had been on her, licking, making her moan.

The hall was noisy, filled with kids going to class, a sea of anxiety and envy.

Claire wondered, again, how anyone, ever, ever, ever in the history of time, got through high school when they really liked a boy, when they really liked a boy and took him to bed, and then had to see him in the halls the next day with the whole world watching, when no one was supposed to know.

Did it seem like the only times he ever saw her in public she was flirting with other boys?

Like now, when some random geek was practically drooling down her shirt while her best friend, who now deserved about three medals and a free manicure at least, was giggling and flirting with half the physics club.

Probably a lot of unexplained teen deaths happened under these same circumstances.

Would he not understand she was just doing something nice for Brian? Would he be mad?

Wait a minute. Back up. He had never, ever said, he wanted to be exclusive. He said the opposite. That was what _she_ wanted. She wanted to _own_ him.

Wow. That was kind of messed up. But there it was.

She still felt the eyes boring into the back of her neck.

The night before, Claire had felt them and then turned around and hitched herself up on the counter, giving John a little smile. "Miss me?" she'd asked, coyly, in her nervousness slightly swinging her legs.

She had watched, fascinated and confused, as John Bender's eyes got several shades darker. He was in her kitchen, he walked up to her and put one hand on either side of her, leaning against the counter, opening her legs a little wider with his body so he could stand between them. He stared at her hard and intense with his dark eyes. "You have no fucking idea," he said, his voice low. He leaned in and kissed her jaw a little roughly and trailed biting, sucking kisses up to her ear and then his voice was gravelly and breathy and his lips brushed her as he talked. "What I'm going to think about next time and maybe for the rest of my life is you perched up on that counter swinging your legs, making me food, as if I was ever going to want to eat anything but you with you looking at me like that, Standish. What do you think about that?"

What Claire thought about that, was that she was entirely made of liquid.

John backed off, leaving her panting. She looked at him, his arms folded over his chest, a look of challenge on his face. While he watched, she licked her lips which had gotten dry, and spoke, not bothering to try to cover her breathlessness. "I'll let you know what I think about it, Bender, when I have a chance to be alone with it later."

Huh. She'd gotten over her shyness, she guessed. John had been trying to look all cool but she could see his eyes popping out of his head and she _thought_ she saw a hint of a blush coloring his face. _That_ was about as big a rush as she'd ever had in her life, making John Bender blush.

Three times in one night. Every girl needed a new hobby now and again, Claire figured.

Not breaking his gaze, she added, slowly, "I can probably give you more details tomorrow."

It was tomorrow, now, but the halls were still swimming with students. She wanted to give him more details. In private. Maybe she could at least manage to look at him in public.

Claire turned around. The gaze was there and every bit as intense as it had felt the night before. But different. Off, somehow.

He was staring at her from down the hall and it seemed like he might as well be across the ocean.

Last night he'd met her parents. "This is John." She'd held his hand. It had been like nothing, the most natural thing in the world.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Standish," he'd said, meeting their eyes and wiping his hand nervously on his jeans. Her parents had come halfway down the basement stairs.

The difficult part had not been John, but her mother. Claire had felt queasy as her mom eyed John. She didn't know which would have been worse, disgust or this, her mother checking him out. Her mother liking it.

"_Very_ nice to meet you, John, any friend of Claire's is a friend of mine," the words were slurred, "A _good_ friend."

"You want to watch the game with us, daddy?" asked Claire, innocently. "John's a big basketball fan."

She watched in satisfaction as her father dragged her mother, who had threatened a sudden enthusiasm for Notre Dame, back up the stairs. "This one's going to bed, kids. Don't stay up too late."

Claire had put her head between her hands. "Great. I guess she won't kick you out of the house if she wants to bed you."

John had fixed her with a look. "Well, that makes one of you. I guess I'm ahead."

Down the hall, that part of the look, the challenging, wanting part, was still there. She could just walk right up to him and drag him into a corner and give him all the details of how she'd thought about him all night. How she'd thought about what he'd said about the kitchen counter. How—

A flush was creeping up Claire's neck, she could feel its warmth. She realized she had completely spaced out, losing herself completely in her memories and fantasies and John Bender's eyes. Brian Johnson's hand lightly touched her arm and she came to herself, pressing his hand lightly in gratitude. "Let's go, Claire, time for French."

"In a minute," Claire muttered. "I'll be right there, you can go without me. Later, Bethany."

Not breaking the gaze, and fully aware of the eyes on her, Claire walked straight up to John Bender. It wasn't that she had chosen, it was that she couldn't not.

She watched carefully as his eyebrows raised.

"Hi, John," she breathed, trying to keep her voice from trembling. She didn't use her trademark flirt.

"Hello, Claire," he said cautiously.

Claire thought she saw a light bruise on the side of his face near his temple. She frowned and felt her hand reach up but caught a look off John, a faint shake of the head.

"I had to stop home this morning," he said, simply, curtly. "So I had to take off," he said in a much lower voice, but still with no warmth.

She nodded, feeling tears behind her eyes again. She didn't want to think where the bruise had come from, she hoped it was from a fight with another kid. She reached out as if to put a hand on his arm, suddenly not caring who in the world might be looking. "Johnm what—"

He shook his head again and she dropped her hand like the air near his arm had burned her.

"Don't be late for class," he said, coldly. "See you around," he said, a little more softly, as he walked away.

Right. Later. Apparently it was easier for some people to turn on and off than for others. So she'd taken what was for her a big step, even if it would look like a baby step to a brave person, and basically he blew her off. Maybe he was trying to play it cool in school, maybe he really was ashamed of her.

On top of that, she was worried about whatever had happen to bruise his face.

How was she ever going to do this? She felt so completely alone.

He'd touched her in places no one ever had. They'd almost fucked. They'd ripped each other to shreds and put each other together again.

See you around?

The last time she'd seen him, he'd been asleep on her couch. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been using his chest for a pillow. He'd told her a story about a _sloth,_ for God's sake. Didn't that mean anything? She was sure there was something else going on, and, she got that, but--she was here too. And it hurt.

To make matters worse, as Claire turned around she saw Ruth-Ann snickering into Heather Duke's ear. Both girls looked at Claire and snickered some more.

Here we go, thought Claire. Squaring her shoulders, she approached them. "Ruth-Ann, Heather, what's your damage?"

Ruth-Ann shrugged. "Hey—you just missed Perce, he was asking advice about your date."

"Our _what_?"

"Your date? He said he called you last night and you said it was fine if you were off detention." Heather tossed her hair.

"Yeah, and that burnout Bender dude who's always staring at you, who you apparently talk to now? I got the impression he _really_ doesn't like Perce. It was pretty funny, actually. What a freak." Ruth-Ann looked in a way Claire that made her skin crawl.

Claire was still stuck on her first question. _Our what? _ She hadn't made any date with Perce.

The night before, John's head had been in Claire's lap when the phone rang. She had reached over and answered, careful to settle the shaggy head back where it had been. "Hey there, Perce," she'd intoned, without thinking. Flirting. It was automatic.

She'd felt John's body tense slightly, but he kept his eyes on the game on the screen. Claire paused. She should be careful. But. Sloth or no sloth, John still hadn't said anything about being exclusive. He had talked an awful lot about how much he liked those other girls. So. She liked Perce. No problem.

"Well—I'm still not sure if I'll be off detention but—I'll probably know soon. Hey, what do you think of the new choreography we have?"

She had shifted slightly under John's head. He'd given no discernable reaction.

"Seriously? You think the choreography is hot? I don't know, I think it's stupid. I'll have to think about it some more."

John had muttered, "If it's hot, why don't you do your part for me here and I'll give you my unbiased opinion." Claire held the phone away from John. "I bet it would be hotter if you made it a striptease," he'd said, and Claire had swatted him on the head. John had started slowly letting his hand go up Claire's thigh. Claire had grabbed it and held it in place. Then he'd started tickling her side with his. She'd gotten off the phone quickly, trying desperately to choke back her giggles.

It had all seemed fine. Claire had concluded he just wasn't really that much the jealous type. She'd guessed she was alone in that, or that she'd reassured him.

But that, she figured, was ok. John Bender's insecurity her worst enemy. So he wasn't jealous. Maybe he'd relax and stick around. Maybe he'd just realize he had it good with Claire and would drop the other girls just for her sake.

On the other hand, given what had just happened, maybe not. Claire flinched on the inside. But there was also that bruise on his face. That made her flinch even worse.

It seemed more likely that the bruise would explain his mood. Everything wasn't about Claire, after all. John had real problems. Ruth-Ann was an idiot.

Ruth-Ann was an idiot, however, who was still talking. Claire realized she'd better pay attention because of course there could be more than one reason John had been acting like that. Ruth-Ann was certainly trying out for the title role of Claire's worst enemy, unaware of her competition in John's head.

"And so I told Perce, you know, how you love ice cream, and told him how maybe he should take you to Mae's Eats."

"_What?_" A cold feeling grasped Claire like a hand trying to take something from her.

"Funny," Ruth-Ann said, "That's kind of what Perce said. He said he thought you definitely would want something classier for a date, you know, especially a first date. He said he didn't want to take you to a dump like that."

"But," added Heather, a girl Claire normally never thought twice about, "I told him how I saw you in there yesterday. At least, I thought it was you. It was just through the window. But your hair is kind of—unmistakable."

"Yeah, and I told him how you'd been talking about wanting to try slumming a little—just for a gag, you know," smiled Ruth-Ann. "Perce kept saying how he wanted to take you somewhere nice. I told him how psyched you were to get on stage with such a looker. I hope you don't mind—I mean, you hardly kept it quiet."

Nodding, Claire realized that at least the last part was true. She'd been plenty happy to get the solo with him—mostly because they'd look so good together.

"So I told Perce didn't matter what dive he took you, you were so obviously into him—even a dump like Mae's would be ok. Since you were going through this slumming phase, with detention and all, he might as well go for it. It'd be something you guys could laugh at later when he took you somewhere real."

"Seriously," said Heather, rolling her eyes.

Breathe. So this was it. Claire had known something was coming, but when it came, it was a surprise anyway. Someone _had_ seen them together. She guessed it was inevitable. She had known it, really, all along.

And Ruth-Ann was not as stupid as Claire had thought.

Claire had just assumed that when it all came down, they'd go after her. But Ruth-Ann wasn't even going to try to take her down—at least not directly. Maybe she'd figured Claire was too well-established, or maybe they'd just figured that her place couldn't matter to her so much anyway, if she was hanging with freaks and geeks now.

So that wasn't even the plan. Whether they knew it or not, they were hitting Claire where it hurt much worse. They were messing with her and John.

Her two worst enemies—Ruth-Ann and Bender's insecurities—were ganging up against her. Against him.

If he believed them—and why wouldn't he, their story not only went along with all his insecurities, he'd mentioned slumming himself at Mae's, and it went along with what _she herself had said_ when she'd been angry—that would screw everything up.

John had been so proud to take her to that diner. To _his _place, where he never brought girls because it was too special, maybe. These girls were taking that away from him. From Claire, because she had loved it, too.

"Well," she said, trying her best for a light, even tone, "you're right about one thing. I really do like Mae's. You should try it some time—when you're off that diet thing you're always going on about. Later girls, I'm totally late for French."

Claire turned and ran almost straight into Principal Dick, on his way to some important appointment to live up to his name, no doubt. Enemy number three. He smiled at her, his face twisting into an ingratiating grimace that made her stomach clench in a way that had her happy she'd skipped breakfast.

Her social skills were automated enough that she smiled back, exactly the right popular teen girl respectful but not over doing it smile.

Sucker. She hoped he'd remember that smile. Sicko Dick was a problem she could take care of, was taking care of. She couldn't let her worries about Bender make her forget to check in with Andy and Kenny and Brian.

Dick Vernon was going to regret the day he'd ever messed with Claire's scary as hell badass burnout crush.

Who liked root beer. And milk.

A ghost of a smile played on her lips and she was on auto pilot through the halls.

In her mind, she was back in her kitchen beeping microwave had dissipated the tension in the air and Claire thought that was a good thing. John Bender talking dirty to her had kind of messed up her plans to show how casual and easygoing she could be. She figured she'd try to salvage some of that and took a deep breath. "C'mon," she said, hopping off the counter, "I'll grab this for you, do you want something to drink?"

"Um, do you have milk?" John looked down, obviously a little embarrassed at his own choice. Claire had felt the return of many shy butterflies just beneath her skin. He was adorable. She wanted to cup his face and kiss his cheek. She wanted to bake him cookies. She snorted instead, covering. Keep it casual, she told herself.

"What? I'm still growing," he said, defensively, "it's not like I like it or anything."

"C'mon, badass crush. Here's your milk. All your dark secrets are safe with me."

As Claire crept into French class, more than a few minutes late, she was grateful to the teacher letting it slide. Maybe her face had said how much she needed it. All the hot and heavy in Claire's heart and body had been replaced by ache and yearning.

The ache made it hard to breathe. Part of it was for the hurt she'd felt in the hall. She thanked God she hadn't gone all the way with him because if she had, that really would have ended her. Ended them, certainly. It was bad enough after going as far as they had.

Rejection was a new experience for Claire Standish, really, and she wasn't enjoying it nearly as much as some of the other new experiences she'd been having.

The pain of a hallway rejection, though, paled compared to her other realization, a realization that had come on with the weight and force of a ton of bricks but without the sudden pain and crash, and without the short duration. Instead, it came on slow and sad, relentless in the way it did not hit her but rather washed over her, a rip tide, threatening to suck the ground from beneath her feet and pull her under.

It was very simple. She had given it everything she had. There was nothing left for her to do. And it was very possible that what she had was no where near enough.

Of course she hadn't done it all perfectly. Of course she'd lost it a few times. But that was her. She was sure that whatever John Bender wanted, it was not a perfect angel of a girl.

_I am so turned on by you angry, that I could fuck you right now…_

Definitely not looking for an angel. Wouldn't know what to do with one if he got one. Another smile passed across her face and she shifted in her seat, turned on in spite of herself. Her mind drifted, the undertow for the moment less overpowering. She answered the teacher's inane question about girls at the beach and their hats.

The word French word for kiss, she reflected, became fuck when used as a verb. John Bender definitely put the verb in French kissing.

But she couldn't think about that right now—any more than she could think of the stupid girls on the beach and what happened to them when they doubted or wanted. Girls. They taunted her even in French class. Enough with the other girls already.

Drifting . . . Je veux qu'il me _touche. _Je veux qu'il me _prenne_. Subjunctive mood. Unreal conditions.

If only the conditions were more unreal.

The problem was—well, she knew what the problem was, and she'd done everything she could think of, and more, to try to fix it. From little and silly, like flavored lip gloss and cashmere lessons, to what was for her bigger, like secret classrooms and lies and bribes to janitors, and then bigger and better but also scarier, hickeys and grinding and hands under blouses. Spoon feeding him, literally, food but also feelings, secrets, wants. In her bed, on her couch, even in front of her mother. Even in the hall.

But the ocean of truth that washed over her—the same ocean that had been lapping its cold waves at her last night before she'd completely lost her shit—said: maybe nothing she could do would make as big a difference as was needed.

"_Claire, don't you fucking see I'm afraid to believe you?"_

It was one thing if John Bender was going to believe her_ own _words said in anger over all the words she'd said and things she'd done that said the opposite. She'd found that wrenching, but they had, at least, been her words. A trap she'd set that they'd both walked into.

If he was going to believe lies other people told about her, though? Without even checking with her first? It might be understandable, but there was nothing she could do. This time, she'd heard about the lies. She could contradict them this time, run after him, beg. Part of her wanted to.

But how many times would there be lies she wouldn't know about? The lies would keep coming. By being with John, Claire was breaking some pretty serious rules that a lot of people lived and justified themselves by. There had never been any way she was going to come out of this unscathed.

Probably John didn't get that. None of them did, except maybe Andy.

Claire was just sorry that it hadn't taken Ruth-Ann more time to realize that the perfect way to punish her for taking up with John Bender, was through Bender himself. And if they hurt him on the way—that was just icing on the cake to them.

She reflected Ruth-Ann, and she guessed, now, Heather, would probably try the same thing on Allison. Claire would have to warn her. She also realized it was really time to come clean to Bethany.

All that was bad enough, but what about the bruise on John's face?

Which probably brought with it the same lies, the lies that said worthless, no good, the lies that echoed so loud in his head. What could she do? All she could do was look at him, see him.

_what you see when you look at me is who I want to be, and I don't want that to stop _

But if he wouldn't look back, or it wasn't enough—nothing she could do.

Last night, on the couch, he'd fallen asleep underneath her as she lazed against his chest. "Don't think I'm bored, Princess, if I fall asleep. I'm just so goddamn tired and I feel so fucking good right now."

She'd brushed the hair away from his face only to have it fall back again and he'd smiled, shifting gently beneath her. "See?" she'd teased, "couldn't you get used to this?"

But he'd shaken his head. "No," he'd mumbled, just before drifting off, "never, I'd always be fucking pinching myself."

Claire had watched him sleep for another hour before going up to bed. She'd memorized the rhythm of his breathing and could play it back for herself when she closed her eyes. She'd left a note for her parents explaining that John had fallen asleep watching television and he'd been so exhausted, she hadn't had the heart to wake him. It was so true and innocent, she didn't even need to lie.

Through several more sleepless hours, Claire alternated between fantasies and sad sloth echoes, both colored by the bittersweet knowledge that even after every bitchy thing she'd said and done, John Bender thought she was too good to be true.

He'd been sleeping on basement floors, he'd said. He knew that his house, its people and the lies they told, were Claire's enemy as well as she did, and he wanted Claire to win.

God, she did too.

She read enough to know—abused kids didn't always triumph. Not even long afterwards when the blows had stopped.

The problem was, it wasn't her fight.

Brian nudged her, the period was over and she hadn't even heard the bell. They walked out together, and he nudged her again. "Claire, you know you kind of turned me into a superhero before class, right?"

Willing herself out of her dark thoughts, Claire responding in a teasing tone. "That was the plan, Clark Kent . . ." Claire looked at him. "Do you realize you just said an entire sentence to me without tripping over your tongue once?"

"Um—" He looked down, blushing.

"Oops. Sorry I ruined it." She punched him half-heartedly in the arm. "Seen John today?"

Brian nodded and looked at Claire pointedly. "Yes. I saw him this morning to give him his lunch. He had a bruise on his face but when I just had barely considered asking him about it, he gave me a look that reminded me why all my friends and I are afraid of him. And then he just walked off."

"I wouldn't take it personally." Claire shook her head and whispered. "Do you think his father—?"

"I don't know, Claire—I mean—what the fuck are we supposed to do? Aren't we supposed to do something if we know something like that is going on?"

Claire sighed. "I don't know. I feel like—we could make it worse, you know? I don't know anything about that kind of situation." Claire kept her voice low. "Let's fix that other problem first. Divide and conquer. So anyway, Andy didn't get kicked off wrestling. He took full responsibility for the glass in the library and said he wouldn't let anyone else take the blame. Vernon didn't even suspend him from the weekend meet. Didn't even tell his coach or his dad. He got a couple detentions, in the end. Not even a Saturday."

Claire reached her hand up for a high five and Brian somewhat awkwardly met it.

"Does Bender know?"

Claire shook her head. "Not yet. No one tells him yet. I don't want to—I want the whole package. So—" Claire continued hesitantly, "are you up next? You don't have to. I—I pretty much knew that he wouldn't take Andy off wrestling for something that happened when Vernon was supposed to be watching us. But you—I mean, I know you're a star student, but that probably doesn't have the same leverage as a sports star."

Brian snorted. "Right, why would it? I mean, why would academics count for as much as sports? It's not like this is some kind of school or something. But whatever. I'm in. I was there."

"But, it was Andy, not you, who broke the glass."

"Claire. Be cool. You know that's not the point." Brian looked a little hurt, like Claire was trying to exclude him or something.

"You're right," soothed Claire. "I just didn't want to—pressure you, you know?" And she gave him a little smile. "Did you and Kenny get the stuff you needed?"

Brian nodded again. "Kenny is really smart. I'm kind of jealous that he's smart and can actually do things in the real world at the same time."

"You do things in the real world, Brian."

"Yeah. That's true, I do trip and fall down a lot. Then there's the stuttering that I manage on a regular basis."

Claire giggled, but shook her head. "Not since Bethany and I transformed you into a superhero, apparently. You're smooth as silk, now."

"Um, you—Bethany and, a, sleep—she, French?"

Claire hadn't known people could turn that shade of purple.

"See you, Bri." and she hurried off.

Just down the hall from her next class, Claire caught sight of Andy and Allison. More allies. Thank God. She ran up to Andy and threw herself at him in an enormous, breathless hug. "I know I told you this before, but you are _totally_ my hero." She kissed him impulsively on the lips, then looked over at Allison. "Um, no offense?"

Allison seemed to consider. "Fine. But only if I can have one, too."

Andy's eyes got a little wider and, Claire thought, hopeful.

Coloring, Claire shrugged. "Sure, you're a babe, right,? and she leaned over and kissed Allison daintily on the mouth. Allison looked at her like maybe Claire was the superhero.

Claire licked her lips. "Mmm. Chocolate." She did her best not to look around to see how many people were watching.

Allison smiled and pointed her chin. "And you're cherry," she said in her low, intense voice. Actually, Claire thought, it was kind of hot.

Andy groaned. "Girls. Class before you kill me," And then, in a lower voice, "and, probably, Bender, too," and he gestured with his head down the hall.

Suddenly, Claire heard the slow, steady clapping that John had used on Saturday, when he'd said so nastily that his image of her was blown, when he'd crushed her as she'd been shy and trying.

Well. She wondered how his image of her was doing now? It probably, she realized, needed to get blown a little bit more.

Definitely. It needed to get blown before anything else did. She couldn't do those things in private and then be like this in public. She'd curl up and die.

She turned around and gave him her best withering look. She'd learned some things about him, and about herself, since the last time he'd clapped like that in a way that ripped her heart out.

Allison glared at him too, and grabbed Claire's hand. "I'll walk you to your class."

Claire Standish could have as much sympathy for John Bender as the world could hold, she could have him in her bed, obsess about him in French class and plan lip gloss for his amusement—but that didn't mean he could just _treat_ her like that. Plus she knew, she _knew,_ that cutting him too much slack when he had a bruise like that on his face would set up a bad dynamic.

The fact that his father beat him didn't make him less of a person, but it didn't make her less of a person, either.

"Hey, wait a second," Bender said, coming toward them, "what if the rest of us wanna know where to get in line for some of that?"

He sounded full of swagger, which Claire guessed was a good sign. Still. Didn't mean she had to roll over.

Claire turned around and met his gaze. She was not going to blush. She was not going to cry, either. Or laugh. This was her element, her territory, and she was going to be cool as a cucumber. John was choosing to play. Fine.

Claire Standish had _always_ joined in all the reindeer games.

She folded her arms and said lightly but with a hint of disdain—"Well, that depends, are you a hero or some kind of a hot babe?"

Bender quirked his mouth up and leaned against the locker across from Andy, Allison, and Claire. Allison was still holding Claire's hand and Andy was shaking his head, making a low whistling sound.

"I don't guess I'm anyone's hero, Princess, but I'll let you be the judge of whether I'm hot or not." He fixed her with a look and opened his mouth just enough to show a flash of tongue, then smirked again.

He was a hero, on Satuday, but Claire was going to let that go. She could feel herself respond to the sight of his tongue and his eyes but she blew it off. She raised her eyebrows and said coolly. "Let's not argue the hero part. But hot? you're hardly my type, so I don't know, really." She looked at Andy. "What do you think?"

Andy put his hands up. "I don't go that way. And my hero is Superman, so—"

"Not your type, huh?" said John tauntingly, folding his arms in front of himself, clearly enjoying himself.

Shaking her head, Claire gave a little snort. "Obviously not. I mean, you don't look like you've ever been within fifty yards of a Ralph Lauren store, and I don't think I've ever seen you in a single school activity."

"Except detention."

"A single volunteer activity. So—you're in a language I don't even speak. I don't see how I could trust my judgment about you. See?"

Bender's gaze darkened a little. Trust. _Big_ issue.

Claire turned to Allison. "What do you think?"

Allison smiled and took Andy's hand. "I just can't even see any boys except Andy, so I wouldn't know, either."

"Oh, c'mon," Andy scoffed, but looked pleased as hell.

Claire sighed. "Please. What use are you, anyway?" She looked over to John. "Excuse the committed couple on my left. What freaks, right?" She licked her lips and folded her arms. "Listen, it's like this. Everyone who gets a kiss from me in the halls is a hero or a babe. But it's impartial standards. Not just mine. Mine are—after all—really high. Not everyone can meet them. For now, let's just assume you could make the first cut."

"You mean, assume that _someone_ might think I was a hero or hot as hell?"

People were watching. People were watching her spar with John Bender. But were they watching a PDA or a fight? Whichever. It was a little hot.

"Sure," said Claire easily, "let's imagine someone was delusional enough to think that about you. It's not such a stretch, from what I hear, you get all kinds of girls to go out to the bleachers with you, right?" Claire was proud. She kept the tremor out of her voice.

Chuckling, John met her eyes. "Maybe not as many kinds as I would like, know what I mean, Princess?"

Narrowing her own eyes slightly, Claire spit out, "The more the merrier, I guess." Oops. A little less than cool, she realized.

"That sure seems like your policy today," John muttered. Also a little less than cool, but low enough that Claire imagined that not _everyone _in the entire school could hear it, for which she grudgingly thanked him.

"I," Claire smiled, "am such a fast learner. But anyway, you should know that to get some of what Andy and Allison got, if you pass the first cut, it's very simple. Get. In. Line."

Allison chimed in. "And I would have to add that that anyone lucky enough to get in that line should be careful not to lose his place." She turned to Andy. "Wouldn't you say kissing Claire is worth a wait and some good behavior?"

Andy looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "Yeah, well, I pretty much wanna keep my balls right where they are so I'm going to just take the fifth on that one, ok?" He laughed nervously.

Claire snuck a look at John's face. John had met Andy's eye and was holding it, nodding.

The bell rang. Allison pulled Claire by the hand and called out behind them, "Clear enough for you now, Bender?"

"Crystal," he called back. Claire could almost hear the smirk.

Claire smiled to herself. Her dark thoughts from French class were not completely gone, but it occurred to her that she had been wrong in thinking that it all came down to her, that if she wasn't enough, nothing could be.

Friends, Claire decided, could be a lot more awesome than she had ever realized.

****

Lunch, however, could be a lot less awesome. Claire had been so flustered with not finding John on the sofa, even though she'd figured he'd take off early, that she hadn't grabbed her lunch. And she'd skipped breakfast, so she was starving.

There was nothing else to do. Cafeteria. Fish sticks? Not likely. Looking with disdain at the wilted lettuce cup before her, she shook her head and grabbed an apple and a banana.

Suddenly, she was forced to stop short as an arm reached in front of her face to grab a milk. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she asked automatically.

The voice was low and taunting. "Cutting in line." He was back in her face and hot as hell. "What are you going to do about it, Princess?"

That was all it took. She was breathless. It was one thing to control her reactions and her voice when he was across the hall. It was another thing when John Bender's wool coat was brushing against her and he smelled like cherry lifesavers.

Score one for the burnout.

"I can think of a few things, but I'm a lady and I don't like to use that kind of language in public," she snapped. Advantage burnout, but the Princess was gaining.

His breath caught, his eyes widened, and she successfully fought back a smile. Score.

Bender shook his head slightly, then smirked. "I'd pay good money for the private show, then," he said slowly, looking her up and down, a public sign of disrespect but a private show of want.

Of course, not only was Claire willing to pay good money for that show, she had already paid the janitor.

But. They were not in private now. He wanted to talk in public? Fine. He could learn some manners.

He surprised her again by reaching over her to grab an apple. His body crossed over hers and leaned in, brushing against her. She hoped she pulled off a disgusted rather than an excited face, but she was pretty sure she failed when his breath hit her ear and he murmured the words, low and fast and out of range of any other ears, "So show me. Bleachers. In ten."

Claire swallowed. Inside, liquid. Outside, steel, or probably some other metal that was just as smooth and cold but more valuable.

She spoke calmly, and loud enough that the entire lunch line could hear. "Another thing, Bender. I realize everyone has their bad days, and that you may not understand exactly whose toes you're stepping on. But a lady expects an apology when someone is—unnecessarily rude."

Claire figured she could give about as good haughty princess as there was.

John glanced up and down the line at the kids staring at then and turned back to Claire. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. "Then a lady should learn not to hold her fucking breath."

"Then a lady isn't the only one." Coolly, she sidestepped him and handed the cashier some money. She turned to John Bender, narrowed her eyes slightly and said, slowly and deliberately, "See you around."

___________

AN: I know it's been a while and this chapter doesn't even have any closet groping. But Ruth-Ann actually (kind of) did something and I recruited a minor character from a different 80s movie! Claire's full "plan" for Vernon doesn't get revealed for another 2-3 chapters—so that's right, learn not to hold your breath (although, with the pace of the last update, I hope for your sakes you learned that already!) Apologies—I'll try to do better. Nov-Dec is the worst time for my work schedule, plus holidays, etc. It was hard to even manage this. I appreciate all the PMs and concern—but I really won't abandon this fic!

This update is brought to you by The Black Arrow in honor of her great reviews and her awesome fic, The Blessing and the Curse. (Twilight AU). I read it without having read the books. I think a lot of people got here from there, but if you haven't seen it (and you are of age) it is well worth a look even if celibate teen vampires are not your thing.

In honor of the recruited 80s movie, I would like to institute a stupid lunchtime poll. I think poor Brian should get some. But should he get some with Bethany or Perce?


	19. Chapter 18

Warning: This goes a little dark. And not in a nice heavy petting in a closet kind of way.

let me go on . . .

—Violent Femmes

* * *

John Bender didn't know what the fuck had possessed him to change from what had seemed like a perfectly good course of fucking action, avoiding the place that he lived and the other people who lived there like the goddamn plague and thereby keeping that shit clean away from the one good thing he had going for him.

A thing he was having plenty of trouble not fucking up on his own.

But no.

Because he was an arrogant, cocky motherfucker with a total hatred for having things go right, he figured he'd wake up in some goddamn mansion after falling asleep underneath this princess girl who'd been feeding him and petting him and fucking whispering sweet goddamn nothings at him, like why will your hair not stay out of your face and can we try bobby-pins, Bender?

Or, please jack off thinking about me and tell me about it later, Bender, instead of feeling vaguely guilty about doing exactly that every day since Saturday?

Or, _please_ put your hand up my shirt?

So what the fuck would you do with that?

Well, if you were a total moron, you would walk out on that shit without so much as a goodbye or a note so you could go back home, where you had no reason to go because some other girl was doing your goddamn laundry so you didn't have to go there. But you, total fucking moron, would go there just to prove you could or something because now you had this girl with a mansion and nothing could get to you.

Motherfucker.

And because, maybe, because you thought you knew the bastard's work schedule and could grab a little cash from the hiding place in your room so you could maybe buy that princess girl some little present, or something, to say thanks for being so goddamn sweet and understanding and even thanks for being such a bitch from time to time because that angry makeout shit is hot as hell.

But maybe you'd be wrong, because work schedules changed and you hadn't been home, so how the fuck were you supposed to know the bastard was working nights and you'd be getting home just after he'd gone to sleep instead of just after he'd left for the day?

Talk about not being a morning person.

Staggering out in his shorts and some grubby t-shirt, just woken up, angry as hell.

"Sorry, Dad, didn't know you were home."

_Worthless punk, who the hell do you think you are, creeping in here like you're ashamed to be seen here. You think I wanna get woken up by you? _

"Didn't know you switched shifts, Dad. Won't happen again."

_Yeah, how the hell would you know, not like you show your ugly face here for days on end, then think you can just waltz in here whenever the fuck you want like you own the place._

"I've been busy."

_Yeah, well if she's got any money, you might wanna talk to her about getting paid for your services, because we're gonna start charging you rent. _

"I'll keep that in mind. And there is no she, ok? So drop it."

Keep that _well_ the fuck away from the old man.

_Where the hell have you been, you think this is some kind of hotel? _

"I dunno, if this is a hotel, you might want a different business model. The service here sucks." Cocky, arrogant, motherfucker.

Gets what he deserves.

Fist flying, duck, misses the face, hits the neck, knocks you flying, hits the head anyway on the kitchen cabinet. Excellent fucking room service. Don't forget to tip.

It doesn't hurt that much, but you should be able to smoke more than one goddamn cigarette at a time. It hurts some. You can light the next one from the cherry of the first one but two at a time doesn't really work. It hurts a lot.

_Cherry. Two-timing doesn't really work._

But there wasn't room for any insight now. John Bender never got used to his father hitting him. It always made him angry and it always hurt. He never stopped asking for it, though, and it never stopped coming.

Many children crave the stability of a predictable routine.

John knew from the second he saw his father that he should not be going to school that day. He knew he should be out in the woods somewhere, doing onehits by himself until he was so high and numb that he could barely put words to other words and knew he wouldn't hurt a soul. Check out the branches, they're all grey and shit. Cool. That shit is cool.

But he didn't do that because he couldn't stop taking steps toward the school like Claire fucking Standish was some electron magnet who couldn't turn off her pull to save her life. He shouldn't go near her, his whole life that week had been about not going near her when he'd been near his house, he was not his house, maybe, but maybe, a little bit, he was. Or he couldn't quite get out of it, even after he'd left it, he was still in it, for a while, ducking punches and looking around for things to hit.

The contrast was too fucking much, to be wrapped in softness and some kind of really fucking excellent pasta and long warm girl legs, to wake up alone, in a strange place and realize you'd been allowed to stay, and then—

He was not that hurt. He'd had so much worse. But it hurt like a motherfucker and all he wanted was to punch things back, different things, it didn't matter, the whole world was a push and pull of pain and he wanted to push back.

This was why he shouldn't go to school but kept going there because he wanted to see that girl like a motherfucker, he wanted that, he wanted her to reach up to his face and brush his hair and make him smile, make him feel soft, make him feel like a million bucks like before.

He knew she couldn't. Not now, not yet. Because all there was in John Bender was anger, gathering strength like a storm, wild and wet with winds and rain and force, maybe ice in the blast. He'd hold that almost back, it would be just some thin stream of rage that got through, but it would get through, and she'd be hurt.

She'd be hurt if he didn't show, too. She was probably already hurt. Probably already worried, he hadn't left a note.

_Dear Claire, Thanks for letting me feel you up. I jerked off about it afterwards, just like you said. Gotta go get decked now. Don't worry. I'll lay into you later and make you feel like shit about everything. It's what I do best. Love, John. _

She kissed him like she was going to love him.

He'd tear into her like he already loved her.

In the hall she looked so pretty and he just wanted to watch her, she was flirting with some friend of hers and Brian fucking Johnson of all people, and what looked like half the physics club or some shit. John had to register that he did not absolutely love Claire flirting with anyone that was not him, even though clearly this was some kind of charity work she was doing for the kid.

John, of course, had almost decked Brian when he'd given him his lunch. Cause that's just the kind of excellent guy John Bender was.

She could talk to the geek in public, right? She could fucking _hold hands_ with Allison or some shit, right? What the fuck was so horrible about John that she couldn't do that stuff with him? Did she really think he was the lowest of the low?

All the words she'd said last night when she'd been so angry came flooding back to him. Sure she'd been mad, but wasn't that how you got to the truth out of someone, down to what they really felt, when they were raw and pissed off and not holding back?

Or when they were raw and turned on and not holding back, pouring all their feeling for you into a kiss without so much as a tongue, lying with you in their big pink and white fluffy princess bed, all pressed against you, the first to do that with you, you the first to be there?

That one, the soft one that felt so good, it _had_ to be the lie. It was too out of step with everything else the world had shown him.

Then he heard them, bitchy girls, that asshole Percy, they were talking about a date Claire had made with that sleazy faggot George Michael wannabe. Really? Really? He'd never told her not to. But why did he have to, if she wanted to, wasn't that the fucking battle half lost right there? Motherfucker. If Claire wanted that, she could not want John. There was no middle ground.

Then they were talking about a date—_his_ date, the one he'd had with Claire. Or at least the place, _his_ place. It was a joke, a slum, a rich kid's game. Was it Claire's game, or was she getting played here? Was she talking about John, then, laughing at him, with this guy who could take her somewhere nice.

She'd been on the phone. John had been in her lap. It hadn't bothered him, even, she was his, he was the guy with the head in her lap, the guy who'd had his hands on her. The only one.

John Bender, though, was a total fucking moron, and should never fucking forget it.

This guy didn't need to get decked just to fucking find a few dollars to get her some cheap drugstore perfume or something, who the fuck knew what to get a girl who didn't need anything, had everything she wanted before she wanted it, when you had no fucking money? He wanted to put a fist through Perce. Percy fucking Dale could be the thing he hit.

And those fucking girls who were Claire's friends. He wanted to hit them too. Because they were not her fucking friends, really. He knew that. Allison had said something, right? He wanted to protect Claire. He didn't want to hurt her, and he thought, maybe, these girls did. He wanted to take them down.

But he had no right because he was a chickenshit fucking worthless sloth of a moron who didn't even have the fucking guts to say, I don't want you with anyone but me.

Who wouldn't even put the shit of a life that he had for her on the line, because the nothing stupid life he had wasn't even worth putting up to get something that was so good.

Because he was never going to have something so good. It was _always_ the good feeling that was the goddamn lie. Motherfucker. Cocksucker.

Storm of fucking rage, swirling, gathering, waiting to break.

Sure, she was laughing at him. Why the fuck wouldn't she be? It was a fucking joke, his trying to be with her.

At least she was talking about him. Slumming was a fine distraction and if he could find his way into that tight little virgin pussy why the fuck should it matter to John fucking Bender who else got there after? He just wanted to get there first. But he could pretty much swing that, he figured. He was sure he could make her come with all her clothes on and once he did she'd be begging him to take them off.

He could lie as well as the next kid.

Rich kids had nothing on him when it came to lying about feelings. He was sure he could match Claire at that fucking game, the fucking game of saying things you didn't mean.

The game of fucking lying that you didn't mean them.

Sure, she wanted him. That much was fucking clear. Maybe his father was right. He should start charging for services rendered. Like a goddamn gardener. He'd fucking plow the shit out of her field if she'd let him.

He felt all that anger sharpen and focus in that place right behind his eyes and felt a bolt of it shooting down the halls toward Claire. He watched her as, plain as day, she felt his eyes on her like they were hands. She turned and saw him. The whole fucking hallway could have disappeared and all there would be was the pull of her. Her watching him watching her want him. So fucking hot. So much fucking want.

John wanted her against a door, against a wall, brick, tile, steel gray locker, all of them. Fucking. Pounding the shit out of her. He always needed something to hit after one of his go-rounds with his father. That down the hall. He could hit that. That shit was fucking prime for the hitting—

_Stop. Get out. Bender. Get the fuck out. _

That was his voice. The voice he needed to listen to.

But in the back of his mind he could feel it, his father's voice merging dangerously with his own. It was what he feared. It was like he said, all the strong feeling blending to anger.

Anger was not the strong feeling he had for Claire. He knew what it was. She was so fucking good for him, so fucking right for him, he knew it, he had felt it.

He just couldn't fucking keep it straight. He couldn't keep anything straight in his head right now. Everything got swirled together, wrong and raw and focused in a bruise on his face he knew was there, on a bruise on his neck that covered the bruise Claire had left, blood pent up, blue to black, blending, merging things that should never, ever touch.

He had to get out of there.

But fucking hell, she was coming towards him. Now. Now had to be the time she picked to come up to him in the halls, which he fucking stupidly _dreamed_ of, now when he couldn't do anything at all but fuck it up, now when the best case scenario was that it was just her fucking feelings he hurt. He would never hurt her on purpose but it wasn't always purpose that was driving the fucking show.

It was too much. It was fucking too much for John Bender today.

He was an asshole for being here. Selfish. Asshole for going home. Asshole. Worthless. Fuck. He fucking loved her and she'd let him touch her and she was coming for reassurance and he was going to hurt her and he saw it coming but there was nothing he could do. He needed to get back to the trees. He needed to be high. He needed for her not to be there, looking at him, with all that care and soft and _fuck_ please,

_please Claire understand what happened. Please please Claire keep it straight when I can't. It's not about you. It's bigger than you. You need to walk away cause I couldn't keep away from you and I want to come back someday. _

He felt like he was going into some kind of video zone. Claire was in front of him, standing there. John was just willing himself away. He was toxic, he wanted to keep the poison from her. He wanted to just get through, leave something to come back to.

The words were coming out of his mouth and out of her mouth but he didn't even know quite what they were. He saw her reach for him, with her eyes, with her hand, he shook her off, knowing she could not touch him now. Knowing that her touch would get merged like the bruises on his neck and that all feelings would swirl into rage and his touch would brand her with it.

Or the feelings wouldn't merge, he'd feel love and then pain and then desperate and then fragile and her touch would break him, and he would crumple to the floor, gone softer than his life would let him.

Catch you later.

Please, he didn't say. Please.

Deep breath. He was sure that had fucking hurt her feelings but it was a hell of a lot milder than the shit that was welling up inside him. He'd explain. She'd seen the bruise. She wasn't stupid. Later.

He'd smoke up. That much was clear. You really couldn't be that pissed off if you were high as a fucking kite. He'd smoke up now, he'd come down by lunch, and then he could smoke up again.

Cutting class, out by the bleachers, high as a kite, John Bender felt so much fucking more relaxed. Nothing seemed that bad now, it could all be gotten through. God bless maryjane, probably the only girl he could ever really fucking be with. For sure the only girl who'd gone down Johnson's pants.

He could feel himself smiling. Just a little. Poor Brian, he'd been a dick to him again. Who the fuck knew why that kid liked him so much? Maybe he'd wanna come and smoke some later, probably after school.

Maybe Claire would even want to come with him when he got high at lunch. He would go to his next class stoned. He'd hardly have any time of not being stoned before he could smoke up again. And he wouldn't even have to try to stay away from Claire because they had class until lunch, right? and then at lunch he could walk out to the bleachers, even with her, even more or less straight, without massively fucking up his life. And then they'd smoke, or he'd smoke, and he'd talk, and maybe that wasn't fucking ideal but she would understand.

It wasn't like she'd ever fucking asked him to cut down on dope, it was just something he was trying, leaving his emotions and thoughts sharp so he could feel all of her, not at a distance, but up close.

Today was clearly not the day for that.

The high layered on over the rage and want didn't even feel that good but it didn't have to perfect. If he could manage to keep shit together and with a little bit of distance today, he could go back to staying the fuck away from his house.

He felt a little flare of rage there, poking through the high. He should smoke a little more, just to be safe. He packed another bowl, cashed it, hid it in its place.

Anyone who knew where his bleachers pipe was kept knew it was his and not to be fucked with.

Really, every idiot in school knew John Bender was not something to be fucked with. Why the fuck did Claire Standish not get that? Claire liked to play with him, but she didn't really understand what she was playing with.

That was a little anger, right there, and a little flare of something else, which was raw fucking need and want and love, Claire playing with fire. How he fucking loved to be the fire she was playing with. And vice versa. Her bush was going to be red as flame and he wanted to play so fucking badly, make it burn for him, just for _him_ and no one the fuck else, just her, just him, on fucking fire for each other—

Shit. Not the day for that shit. Keep it away. He grabbed the bowl again. Keep the hit parade coming, apparently. His tolerance was building, maybe, but shouldn't it be less after a little break?

Staying stoned would keep the fire away, maybe, but it would keep her from getting burned. Slow. Relax. A fuzzy cotton world. He'd lie there safe, maybe Claire would like that too.

Maybe he could just ask her about what those assholes were talking about in the hall. They could just talk about it, like sane people. He'd thought she'd really liked going to Mae's, but—maybe he'd been wrong. But maybe the asshole kids were wrong. Whatever, it was all ok. If Claire wanted to go somewhere else, go out with someone else, that'd be ok. He never was such a possessive motherfucker and he didn't intend to start now. She could be with him how and when she wanted to, and he could keep that caveman shit at bay.

Just a couple more hits and he had to go the fuck back to class, he didn't need to get busted on top of all the shit last week and this week and this morning, at all.

_High as a kite, I just might. . . ._

Fucking staying straight was fucking with his perspective, he liked Claire and she liked him and it didn't need to be so fucking complicated. They'd had a great time stoned on Saturday. She'd let down, he'd let down, they could do it again. They could make out, they could have fun. It would be cool.

_stop to check you out_

As John walked across the field, he noticed the clouds making patterns in the sky, and he thought it looked cool as hell.

He knew he loved Claire, even though smoking made it feel different, less awesome, maybe, but awesome wasn't really the flavor of the day. The high made it less painful, more relaxed. He didn't know why it hadn't worked the other night when he'd tried so hard to forget her, but maybe because he was sure he'd fucked it up. Maybe forgetting her was too tall an order for just a stupid marijuana high. Maybe it didn't work as well on pain as it did on anger—since anger was mostly what he felt, he had limited experience to judge. Maybe it didn't always work, even. Maybe that was how people went on to smack.

Whatever. It was sure as hell working fucking great right now.

He figured he'd go look for Allison, she had his laundry stashed somewhere, maybe she'd like to come with him at lunch. Not to smoke, just for the company. She could make him laugh, maybe. He loved Claire, but she was going out with some other guy, so that meant he could hang out with other girls. For sure he could hang out with Allison, that was totally safe. No one could get jealous of Allison, not with Andy right there.

But John fucking loved girls. They were so fucking soft and pretty. So if Claire didn't feel like it, Allison or some girl could go out to the bleachers and laugh.

It wasn't like Claire was going to fuck anyone else, and he wasn't either. Just laugh, maybe touch a little, if Claire didn't want to. Not Allison, probably, but maybe someone else. Maybe Claire idn't want to touch him, when he'd been such an ass. She'd get over it. But he was going to want someone to touch him, later on, when he was high and safe, a little touch to take away the sting. Did it really have to be her?

Maybe someone just to lie there, in the field with him. Didn't have to plow shit today. Just lie there, a little touching here and there. With Claire or someone.

Or watch the clouds, which really looked cool as hell.

* * *

A/N:This was really hard to write! John is confused. Which means it's confusing.

Reviews help John self-medicate. Concrit, though, helps him get his shit together.


	20. Chapter 19

Claire had been sitting with her friends and enemies when some scared looking kid she didn't know came up to her and shoved a piece of paper in her hands. He ran away before she could say a word. Her friends giggled and Claire rolled her eyes, crumpling the paper in her hand. She glanced at it moments later.

Three words.

"Boiler room. Please."

Well, Claire sighed, it wasn't sorry, but it was a start. She motioned to Allison to meet her in the hall for a minute, and then she was on her way.

She had no sooner cracked the door to the boiler room than she was pinned against it, one Bender arm on either side of her and dark eyes burning trails of fire over every inch of exposed skin. His thigh was pressed up between her legs, the only place their bodies touched. The air between them was electric, it felt like sparking fingers running over every part of her body, all of them Bender's, but none of them quite making contact.

Oh boy. Here we go, thought Claire.

"How many fucking people did you think you can kiss before you got around to kissing me, Cherry? Just an estimate." His mouth was curving up slightly but his eyes were not smiling. At all.

"The number approaches infinity at the same velocity that you don't apologize for treating me like shit, Bender," she said evenly. Her breath, she knew, was not even, but her voice was doing all right.

"Oh yeah?" His eyes were flashing and his breath was ragged and Claire had never been so scared and turned on at the same time. His eyes darted to her mouth, her neck. His leg shifted between hers. Hard. "You want me to teach you a little something about the laws of physics, Claire? A little lesson on friction?"

It took everything Claire had not to moan.

John noted every part of her reaction. He licked his lips and said, taunting, "Huh, it looks like you've been working on the not holding your breath thing, cause you're breathing pretty hard now."

He was being such a dick, and Claire _hated_ it that apparently her body thought that was hot as hell. Because right now, she didn't agree. She swallowed. "You're not looking too blue in the face either."

"It's not my fucking face that's blue, Cherry." His knee shifted between her legs again.

"Prick."

"Yeah, that's a little closer." He sounded mean and heated, just barely contained.

Claire tried to shove him away but he didn't budge. His hand came up to her hair and stroked it, the move was gentle enough but Claire sensed rage behind it.

This was dangerous. He was a dangerous boy. He was a dangerous boy who had been beaten and he wasn't in complete control. Claire kept her eyes focused on his. She would try to have enough control for the both of them.

"If you don't like rude, Cherry, what the fuck are you doing with me?" His eyes looked like they'd like to be doing damage. They felt like they were.

"About now I'd have to say I have no idea." She spoke softly but her voice was trembling. Scared. She was scared. But that wasn't the only reason her voice was trembling, and she knew it.

"Is that right." He brushed her hair back again, then trailed his rough, gloved hands down her neck. "You don't think it could have something to do with the fact that if I put this hand down your precious, pristine little panties, I'd find them—wet, Claire?"

Claire's voice caught now. Her control was slipping—not the way he thought. He was making her feel gross and dirty and used. Tears were coming to her eyes. "Why are you doing this? Why are you being this way?"

"Oh that's right, you're a lady. You don't like my rude hands," and he trailed them lower, moving toward her chest. "But wait—I'm pretty sure, that you do. I'm pretty sure that my hands can make you scream—in an unladylike as hell way. Let's test the theory."

Claire was terrified she was going to prove him right. She'd thought of his hands, dreamed of his hands, doing exactly this all night. But not exactly this. No. She dreamed of him touching her like he wanted her, but not like he hated her for it. She shoved his hand off her. "This has nothing to do with your hands, John, but you can damn well keep them off of me until—"

"Until what, Princess? Just what do you think you're going to do about it?"

Claire took a deep, deep breath. "This isn't who you are, John."

"Who the _fuck_ do you think it is? I can see how you might be having trouble keeping track, you're having a busy fucking day, but this is your nooner, and news flash, Princess, this is _exactly_ who I am."

Breathe. Bitter, angry John equals hurt John. Hurt John equals hurtful John. This John needs care, but he needs someone to draw the line. He needs to stop.

"No. You are _not_ someone who is going to touch me when I say not to."

"It's one of the first things I did, Princess, remember—or did I have permission back then to shove my face into your pussy? Detention? Under the desk—when you were trying to help me?" His eyes trailed downward. "I bet you remember that. And what else do you remember—how I was joking about gang raping you? Remember? But for some reason, you want to pretend like you think I'm different?"

"Sometimes everyone says and does things they don't mean." Claire realized this sounded a little lame. It was just one of those true lame things that never sounded as good as it was actually true.

"Yeah, right, Princess. Like I fucking need you to tell me that right now. I've been in that class all goddamn day, haven't I?"

Please, thought Claire. Let me find a way through. Don't let him do this. Please. "No, actually, you've been _teaching_ that class." She took a breath, looked for some calm inside her, didn't find it but went on anyway. "Look. I know you went home. I don't know what he said to you, John, but you're better than this." Another breath. "Weren't you going to be on my side? Don't do his work for him, remember?"

John closed his eyes and a look of pain passed over his face. Score one for the Princess, but it was no game now.

Between clenched teeth, Claire managed, "Say you're sorry right now, and keep your hands off me until you do." She looked down, and looked up again. "Please."

He looked at her again, still crazed, but she thought a little saner. "All right, if you say so," and he bent his head to her ear and started talking. He peppered his words with bites and licks and tugs at and in her ear and on her neck right below it.

"I'm so motherfucking sorry, Princess, that I didn't meet your etiquette standards this morning after my father fucking decked me and knocked my head into kitchen cabinet. That must have really sucked for you, my rudeness. But everyone has a bad day, like you said. You probably deal with that shit all the time."

He finished with a long lick over her ear and then pulled back. "Huh, the lady is panting again. And look, Ma, no hands." He held them up and then slammed them back into the door, trapping Claire again, but now leaning closer.

Claire _was_ panting. And that was sick, she thought. And now she was going to cry. A tear spilled down Claire's cheek and she brought a hand up to wipe it away.

Was that an apology? Did that count? she wondered. She decided that it had better because this had to get defused, fast. "Thank you for apologizing. I knew it was something like that and I never have to go through anything like that and I hate it that you do." She wiped her face again. "After I saw you, I was so worried, and I just—I wish I could do something."

John looked at her like she had just started speaking in tongues. But then he managed a sneer. "Well, isn't that sweet. But I guess you didn't feel that enough to—I don't know, do something like cut me a little slack?"

Sniffling, Claire narrowed her eyes. Now she was crying and turned on _and_ angry all over again. "I cut you plenty of slack. I mean, I'm here, aren't I? After you treat me like dirt or—a piece of ass and then think you can just order me to the bleachers and I'll jump to it?"

"What, I was crazy to think maybe you could slip me in between appointments?"

She wanted to slap him. Badly. Then bite him. Badly.

Ok. Ok, thought Claire, he was baiting her, and she needed to try not to take the bait. Defuse, remember? This wasn't about her. John's anger at his father should not be something between Claire and John. Definitely the wrong anger to be making out with.

Figuring out how to talk John down instead of working herself up was harder and more grown up than anything, anything she'd ever had to do. She bet Allison would know what to do. Claire, on the other hand, had no clue. She figured she'd just keep reaching out, and either he'd reach back, or he'd smack her hand down again. Or bite it off entirely.

"John, listen. Just see it from—my point of view, for a minute. I was in bed with you, you fell asleep with me. In the morning you take off, no goodbye or note, and then you wouldn't talk to me. Remember, also, that you were the first person to—touch me."

His face was completely impassive. He didn't look impressed. He didn't look anything. At least he didn't look so violent. She decided to try to go on. "I mean. I get you have your reasons, for having a bad mood, but that was really mean, and it hurt—whatever your reasons are. Good reasons. I get that—you have bigger problems than me. I wouldn't even mind so much, all I was looking for was—sorry, it was a bad time, or a note saying you couldn't talk—_something_ that said hey, I remember you, a person with feelings even if I can't deal with them right now—but not only did you not say anything like that, you just kept—_at_ it, in public, and—if you couldn't deal with me, couldn't you just stay away from me until you could? Do you have to, I don't know, bring me down with you?"

"Sorry," the word was spit out, but sounded, actually, a little sincere. Then it changed again. "Maybe your next date will work out better. Or maybe it isn't your next one. Maybe you have a few others lined up in between. I was referring to the one with Wham! Bam thank you ma'am, he'll actually take you somewhere nice, right? Maybe he'll get to third. Did you make that date while my head was on your fucking lap, _Cherry_?"

"First, you don't have_ anything_ to say about that. But—"

"That's right. I don't have thing one to say about it and yet—here I am. Saying something about it. I'm so fucking rude. Oops. Can I apologize again? Can I use my hands this time?"

"Yes." Claire felt another tear spill out of her eye and trail down her cheek. She lowered her eyes.

"_Yes?"_ At this point, John Bender sounded completely shocked. "Yes? Are you out of your _fucking mind,_ Claire?"

Claire nodded. "Duh, John Bender." And she smiled weakly.

"Oh, God." John backed up a step. "Why the fuck would you let me touch you now?"

Claire looked at his face and saw what looked like realization, then horror, as he stared at his hands, slightly shaking his head. She tried to keep her eyes on his face although he wasn't looking at her. "Because I _fucking_ love it."

She sniffled again, and leaned her head back against the door, her eyes closed. Every part of her ached with what she was going to say next and the worry that it would be true. "And because you said you were sorry. And because in a minute, you're going to realize what an asshole you've been, and you're going to feel bad, and then you'll probably walk out on me again to try to protect me from you, and punish yourself, and then you won't be touching me at all."

Then he was right back close to her. "That's not going to fucking happen, Claire." But he didn't touch her.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not that fucking noble, remember, I'm not a hero."

"Why did you want me to come down here, John?"

Silence.

Nothing in all her life had given Claire Standish any clue about how to deal with someone damaged quite like this. She'd had friends whose parents had smacked them from time to time, but nothing like this. She looked at John, standing, half turned away from her, arms folded, kicking with one boot at the floor. He wasn't looking at her.

She should probably walk away from this right now. It would be the smart thing to do. Walk away and call someone, some grownup who could _do _something. But she couldn't make that choice for John—she didn't think. Claire was in so far over her head—but that was the problem. She was already in it over her head, and if she stopped treading water for even a second, she would start drowning. It was sink or swim, and the current was only going one way. Toward the broken boy.

Claire took another step forward and watched him stiffen, the silence lengthening the space between them.

She took another step, fighting the silence. She moved around to where he was facing. He didn't look at her, but she looked at him, his long hair was falling dark over his darkened face.

There was one thing she knew to do.

Claire put her hand up to his face and brushed the hair back from his forehead, her fingers lingering on the strands as they moved through them.

John's breath hitched and then relaxed slightly. A muscle twitched on his neck, as though he were holding something in check, but Claire thought she saw a lightening of tension around his shoulders. So far so good. Claire was as intent on what she was doing as she imagined surgeons were, and really, she didn't know if a surgeon could be more careful than she was being. Pity, she thought, she didn't have any of the knowledge or training.

She cupped John's jaw with her hand, and although he still wouldn't look at her, she laughed, softly, and rubbed his cheek with the pad of her thumb. "You're such a mess, Bender. I can't believe I left my bobby pins home. What am I ever going to do with you now?"

As relaxed as she hoped she sounded, she was watching his reactions like a hawk. Claire noted as he darted a glance at her, leaned maybe half a millimeter into her touch.

She put her hand up to his brow again and stroked his hair. "Look at this. No matter what I do, it just falls down again. And you can't really expect me to just follow you around all day fixing your hair, right?"

Ghost of a smile.

"I mean, even you, you're not _that_ egotistical, right?"

"Don't count on it," he muttered. The smile seemed a little stronger, although still barely visible.

"Hey, I have an idea," Claire said, still softly, but a little more brightly, "what about some mousse? I bet that would be just the thing. Just a little mousse. Maybe—lemon. I like lemon."

"I'll give you fucking lemon mousse, Claire," he growled. But the smile was a little more, and he met her eye for a split second.

"Would you? That would be sweet." She trailed a finger down the side of his face. "But—I bet I could borrow some from Perce. Don't you think he has some mousse lying around somewhere?" She kept her voice light, mocking.

John snorted. "Prick has cases of the shit, obviously." Another glance toward her. Then away. "That why you wanna go out with Mr Choose Life?"

Claire nodded seriously. "Yes, it's because of the mousse, John. It makes it hard to keep saying no to him, which I do," and she trailed her finger down his chest, "even though it obviously doesn't bother you who I go out with, because you're not like that."

"You say no to him?" Not looking.

"Mm-hmm—or at least, not yes."

"You're not going out with him Wednesday."

"No."

"So why did he say you were?"

"Hard to know. Guys are such total idiots. Maybe" and Claire gave him a little shove, which didn't move him an inch, "Maybe you shouldn't believe everything you hear about me without asking me about it first. Just a thought. Where would I be if I believed everything people say about you?"

"Everything people say about me is true, Claire," John said darkly.

"Oh, I see," Claire said pensively, "you deal coke to kindergartners and you'll go down on a donkey for a high enough price?"

John snorted like he wanted to laugh, but wouldn't. "That's a fuckin' lie. They have to be in third grade at least."

"The donkeys?"

"Yeah. But, Claire, Perce, he's your type?"

"Definitely. My type," Claire took a deep breath, hoping she was doing the right thing, and slipped her fingers under the hem of his t-shirt. "I like a guy who doesn't let a lot of personality get in the way of his hair, you know?" John's skin was soft, there were hard muscles underneath it, he felt amazing and his breath went all kinds of ragged under her touch. It felt like he was struggling for control—but a different kind. The kind she might _like_ to see him lose, sometime. When Claire raised her eyes to his they were staring, like Santa had come to the group home after all. "It makes it hard to figure out why I'm here in the stupid basement with a jerk like you, doesn't it?"

John nodded, wordlessly.

"I must," Claire slid her hand further up his shirt, she could feel her hand trembling, feel his heart rate quicken and his chest expand as his lungs filled more quickly with air, "really like you." She let that sink in, let her hand flatten against his chest, feeling the warmth and texture of his skin a moment before she let it slide down again, slowly, feeling every breath and beat, down his chest, over a line of hair in the center of his stomach. Claire made a mental note to investigate that line further at a future time. She let her fingers follow it down until, looking up again and meeting his wide, shocked eyes, she grabbed the waist of his trousers, gave them a little tug toward her, and said, slowly, "or at least, I must _really_ want to give you a makeover."

Silence. Claire was nervous. Maybe she should have gone softer, but she had a feeling softer was going to totally break him and then he might feel the need to overcompensate with more hard and cold, and she really didn't think she could handle any more of that today.

First one side of John's mouth went up, and Claire breathed a little easier. Then the other side went up, and although it looked like he was trying not to smile, he wasn't succeeding. He shook his head slightly, but the smile reached all the way up to his eyes.

"You really wanna fucking own me, don't you, Standish," he asked, voice a little shaky but somehow cocky at the same time.

Score.

Claire nodded seriously, fighting back her own smile, knowing it was failing. She hoped that looked half as good on her as it did on him. "How'm I doing on that?"

"I'd say you're pretty fucking close." He suddenly sounded serious. "Claire, come here."

She moved towards him and he put his arms around her, tentatively, then a little more firmly. He buried his face in her neck and she could feel him give a long, shuddering sigh as he relaxed into her. "I'm such a nightmare," he said.

Wrapping her arms around him tighter, she said softly, "It's ok."

He shook his head, still talking into her neck. "It is so fucking far from ok. I should never have come here today, I knew I should have fucking stayed away from you, but I just couldn't, and then I tried to again and I couldn't—I just—everything you said was right—"

"Shh. Allison's coming down here in a few minutes. Don't talk about anything now."

"She's your safety." John breathed a hollow chuckle. "You were afraid to come down here, weren't you?"

"Of course I was. You're kind of scary on a good day. And John? This wasn't a good day."

"No shit. Claire—"

"Ssh. It's always talk, talk, talk with you. Boys. You're all alike."

"Claire, that's very cute, but _listen,_ ok? I have to get the fuck out of there, somehow. I'm never going to be able to do this otherwise. You make me feel—all soft—"

Claire raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, well, some parts, anyway. I let my guard down, I get confused—but I think, probably, those are important parts of being with someone. At least I'm sure as hell gonna be confused if I spend any time with you. And pissed off, by the way, because you totally piss me off and make me crazy but—today was not—that. It was the wrong kind of pissed off, the wrong kind of confused. Do you see that?"

Claire nodded, because she really, really did see that. And it scared the hell out of her. Because she didn't know if she could keep this up, John was one thing, but his dad was another, and she didn't want to think John had to just sit there and take it, but she didn't know what else he could do.

John started pacing. "I gotta get out of there because I don't want to have to stay away from you and I don't want to—I don't want to hurt you—I mean, more than I obviously will because I'm naturally an asshole—but you, you're signing on for the asshole that's me, apparently, partly because it makes you hot as hell. Not just you, by the way. I mean, those angry makeout sessions are for sure not on my list of things I never wannna do again, you know?"

There was nothing Claire could do to keep from blushing. At least they were on the same page, she thought.

"But it can't get mixed up with that shit with my dad cause that's just—it's too fucking much. I mean, it's fine, I guess, to lose my mind over you but I can't really fucking lose my mind, you know? It's one thing to be living this way and basically being on my own, but if I'm either pissed off or wasted all the time it's not—you really do deserve better than that."

Claire nodded, but felt the tears coming. "But I don't want—anyone else, really."

Before she could blink she was back up against the door again and John's tongue was pressing at her lips and then in her mouth, his hand was at her back and he was pressing all of him up against her. He pulled back, steadying himself against the door with one hand. "I gotta say, it feels amazingly alright to hear you say that." He put his mouth on hers again, this time gently. Claire felt her tongue playing with his and his playing back and hoped this meant he was feeling better. She sure was. He pulled back again and stared at her, all serious but mocking at the same time in the way she loved. "But I didn't mean you deserved better than me. I'm pretty sure, actually, that you don't. You're no angel yourself, sweetheart."

Shaking her head slightly, Claire smiled. "I was thinking that before, actually. Almost exactly that. But I was thinking you wouldn't know what to do with an angel, anyway."

John smiled slow and wicked. "Sure I would, Princess. Rip her halo right the fuck off, get her to lie back on her wings, and fuck her right back up to happy land." He paused. "But maybe I wouldn't, because it could make you jealous. And maybe I owe you one, just about now."

"One?"

"Well, not fucking an angel should be worth at least a couple."

"How much fun do you think you could have with an angel, anyway? Guy like you, I mean."

"Plenty. Turns out those nice girls, when you get them to let down a little, they find out how good it feels to be bad, and they've got all kinds of tricks up their sleeves." He trailed his hand up and down her arm suggestively and the weight and heat of his touch, even just there, had Claire shivering.

She looked at him and tried to put all that feeling, all that your touch makes me shiver feeling, into her tone and words. She spoke slowly and trailed a finger up and down his arm right back at him. "Yeah, well, maybe there's something to that, because before you were such a dick to me all day, I _was_ going to tell you about my night after you passed out and I went to bed naked and thought about you for hours."

John groaned and tried to look exasperated but his eyes were warm and smiling. "All right, now I don't owe you a fucking thing, because I'm gonna walk around uncomfortable as hell all day, now, and it's all your fucking fault."

"Sorry. Sorry to ruin the great day you were having, Bender." Claire tried to roll her eyes but she knew she smiled instead. This felt right. A little wrong, naturally, it being the Claire and Bender show, but the right kind of wrong. The kind of wrong where she really hoped he'd get his shit together soon so she could maybe fuck him.

Wow.

John was still talking. Claire smiled wider. She figured he'd be really pissed off if he knew the train of thought he'd just missed.

"And anyway," he finished, "I thought we established that my being an asshole kind of gets you off."

"I didn't say it didn't." Claire giggled. "It just doesn't get _you_ off."

"When did I ever get off with you?"

"Maybe I was ready to change that. Maybe I had a _new_ trick up my angel sleeve. But—" Claire reached into her pocket and pulled out a compact. She started rearranging her hair. "I guess now you'll never know _what_ kind of an opportunity you missed." She looked at John over her mirror. "I really do deserve better, you know."

"I know that." John reached out and snapped her mirror out of her hands, then put both his hands in her hair and destroyed her hairstyle. "Look at that. You're not the only one who can do makeovers."

"John," wailed Claire, "You _dick!_ I thought you agreed I deserved better."

"Yeah, but I didn't say you were gonna get it." He laughed and started smoothing her hair as she glared at him.

****

John's entire chest area felt like it was fluttering and glowing and he couldn't believe how in love he felt with this girl who was glaring at him like she was going to kill him, her crazy-ass hair sticking up under his fingers. He loved her, he absolutely loved her, she had teased and taunted him out of his first class fucked-up father funk when he would have sworn up and down it was impossible. And when it was the last thing in the world he'd deserved, he'd been making sure of it all day.

And suddenly, things started to get really fucking clear to him.

She might deserve better but he sure as _hell_ was not about to let anyone else give it to her.

So he might have to work on his shit a little. Ok, a lot.

He might have to get a little help with that, because although he was no kind of pushover and was really plenty tough, he had somehow reached his limit to what he could take and how he could take it, if there were going to be other people's feelings involved in this shit.

Which there obviously were.

Which, now that he wasn't completely fucked up angry or high, he could see was a totally excellent fucking thing that he should be enjoying the hell out of. Which he intended to do. If someone handed him a free z of indica bud, he would have smoked it up, not flushed it down. So he didn't really see any reason why he shouldn't enjoy the hell out of this thing with Claire.

Being crazy about a girl who was clearly at least a little crazy about you back was clearly not one of the things you needed to avoid in life. It was clearly the kind of thing that a lot of people were pretty stoked for, and maybe some of them never even got it.

It wasn't something she needed to be punished for. Him either. He figured he'd better kiss her to keep her shut up for a minute so he could finish having this revelation or whatever it was before she opened her pouty little cute as hell mouth and said something to piss him off so badly that he'd be either too mad or horny to think any more. Or both.

So he kissed her for a while, feeling her tongue slipping over his in a way that made his chest feel more fluttery and kind of tight. She arched into him and she tasted like cherries and there was nothing at all wrong with that.

John just really needed to not go home, there was nothing that said he had to take getting the shit kicked out of him just to prove something to himself.

Otherwise, all he had to do was just enjoy this love thing and figure out how not to be an asshole to Claire for long enough that she would let him get in her pants because that was going to be another thing he would enjoy the hell out of. He could feel himself start to go more intense at the thought, feel himself move to grind into her, but then he didn't, because he had to wait until he could know somehow that he would not have to be a total dick to her the next hour, or the next day.

Because her feelings were obviously totally connected with her body, the way she was gently pressing into him was sweet, but also more hesitant, more skittish than she had been and he felt like shit that he had made that happen.

It was time to put up or shut up, and what putting up meant in this case was just to be fucking awesome to this girl who clearly was putting everything on the line for him, day after day. For sure she was working from a different position. Maybe it was easier for her.

But he was going to be excellent to her, and he was going to have her back and be on her side the way she wanted, and fuck up those stupid girls who, now that he could see clearly, were clearly trying to fuck with her, and maybe with him, because he knew, if he thought about it, that Claire had loved where he'd taken her yesterday and he'd take her there again soon.

He was going to play poker with her, and take her to play pool. And everyone would look at him with this fancy girl and be jealous and that would rock too.

If she wanted to be going out with some gay-acting straight guy of a pop star wannabe, she would, right? And if John didn't get his shit together, then she had fucking _promised_ she would. And actually, he really, really didn't want that to happen. So he really had to get his fucking shit together. Badly.

So he just kept kissing her gently, trying to put any sweetness he could find in him into the kiss. He just had to figure out how to get some of his life to ease up on him a little so he could _be _with her without ripping her to shreds like he'd clearly been doing today.

Didn't mean he was some kind of a pansy. Just not some kind of a patsy.

He sucked Claire's lower lip into his mouth one more time and then released it. "You do deserve better. That was one of my ideas for better. How am I doing?"

Her eyes were all shining and she had that glowy look. Kissing was definitely the shit. "Um," she faltered. She couldn't speak very well and it had just been the sweet kind of kiss. Cool. "Good," she said, and she smiled and looked so sweet and pretty that John thought he might just die on the spot.

Clearly once he stopped fighting this shit he was going to be a babbling fucking idiot in nothing flat. Fine. That was fine. He was going to enjoy the hell out of being a babbling fucking idiot for as long and as often as he could.

He leaned into her because he knew she liked that, but he hoped she could see the difference in his eyes or something, how different he felt about it from the crazed masochistic and sadistic asshole that had greeted her when she'd walked in. A lot of people felt like they should choose between the S and the M but Bender had clearly been going for broke on both fronts.

Time to put that shit in the bedroom with a safeword where it belongs.

Shit. Wow. Remember the fucking sweetness plan, Bender. Trust first, handcuffs later.

Wow. Stop. Cute freckly virgin in your arms. Hurt by you. Make it better.

He bent down and kissed her cheek. "So what I meant was, Claire, that I'm gonna do better. Not that you should be with someone else. I know this'll come as a total fucking shock to you because I'm subtle as hell when it comes to my fucked up emotions about you, but I do not absolutely love looking at you with other guys."

"Did you get jealous of the physics club?"

"Fuck me. But somewhere I also thought that was some kind of decent. If I ever have to watch you kiss Clark again, though, I won't be responsible for the consequences."

"I didn't know you were watching. Usually when I kiss Andy it's—"

"Fuck you."

"I'm still waiting, remember, for your official answer to a question. How did you feel about my kissing Allison?"

"That, sweetheart, I would fucking pay to see. Any time."

At that precise moment, Allison's voice called out from behind the door. "Claire? Still breathing?"

"Pretty fucking heavily, Allison, at the moment, thanks for asking," John called.

Claire giggled. "I'll be right out, Al—"

John caught at her again. "Wait. You have been more than awesome, Claire, I'm really fucking sorry, my head was so far up my ass I couldn't see anything straight, and I'm gonna try to do better, ok?"

And she was fucking beaming at him. Awesome. That shit felt awesome. It felt so much better than feeling like total shit he could hardly believe it. She looked him in the eye and said, "I've been trying to better all week, and except for a few dramatic failures, I think I can recommend it. We can talk later—about the other stuff, you know, your situation. But remember, John, if you fuck up, just say you're sorry, and—let me know if you need me."

Need. Ok, so that caused a little panic in a Bender. He was not at a point where need was going to come into it. That's ok. He could kiss her instead of answering, and then he'd let her go.

When she was gone, he slumped against the boiler room door. So now he had all kinds of awesome resolutions and no clue, really, about how to make them happen. So he was going to dig up Brian fucking Johnson because clearly he was the person to go to for girl advice. No. Not really. But he was smart as hell and John was sure, actually, that he would want to help.

But first he had a score to settle. And that, was _definitely_ one of his skills.

* * *

Thanks for reading, guys. Reviews help John settle his score.


	21. Chapter 20

But the day after today  
I will stop  
and I will . . . start.

--Violent Femmes

* * *

Nothing in the sameness of the school, its walls, its faces, inspired faith in the possibility of change. John Bender felt lost, adrift now. He'd come to an enormous conclusion fed by necessity and want, but his burning resolve had met only tired yellow walls and last year's graffiti and could find no purchase there. He'd acted quickly in the ways he knew how, but after, he found himself casting around for any line that might hold, close to despairing.

He found Brian Johnson hovering around the auditorium door and grimaced. It had come to this.

"Whatcha doin,' dork?"

John leaned against the hallway wall, keeping his distance. Brian looked twitchy.

"Oh, um, I was just—physics club was canceled so," he shrugged his shoulders a little apologetically.

John nodded toward the auditorium. "Claire in there or something?" _Any massive fucking douchebags with her?_

"Um, no. She, um, and some other meeting. I don't remember. It's just—other numbers rehearsing. From _Chorus Line_. Or something—who knows? I mean, how lame, right?"

Looking at him quizzically, John motioned Brian to come closer. "Listen, big Bri, I kinda need your help with something. Since your, um, really important club was cancelled, do you think you could, I don't know, hang with me a while?"

Ok, that sounded really fucking pathetic but it was maybe time to swallow some shit.

"Sure," Brian flushed with pleasure and nervously ran his hand through his hair. "Cool. But, um, first—I kind of have to meet Kenny, he had some," he paused, and if possible looked even more awkward, "you know, your friend, who you introduced me to, who, we're helping each other and I just had some stuff to give him for a project, not anything really important or anything to do with you—of course—but he was going to meet me after physics club and now I'm not going to be there do you know where he might be since he's your friend?"

The last words all came out in a big jumbled pile and it took John a few moments to untangle them into some kind of sense.

"Big Bri. Chill. I'm here asking for your help, remember? And I bet Kenny's in the shop room if he was waiting for you to be done with your club. Why don't we find him there, and then we can go shoot some pool or something, cool?"

"Um. Yeah." Brian's face brightened, relaxing. "I—you know, physics can be very helpful in pool, if you understand some of the properties."

John smirked. "So can knowing when to ram your long stick hard, and when to slide it firm but gentle."

Brian blushed furiously and John grabbed the scruff of his neck. "C'mon, dork. This works for me, too, I had something to check out myself down that way."

To Brian's surprise, John insisted on taking the long way around to the shop, and he seemed preoccupied. Brian tried to ask what was up, but John just shook his head.

Suddenly, Brian's attention was claimed by a blond girl up ahead. She was pulling on her locker, hard. A dark haired girl was next to her, and they looked upset. Their voices were high and thready.

Stopping dead in his tracks, John looked up the hall and then quickly around, pulling Brian into a doorway. "Hang out a minute," he said. Something was flickering behind his eyes and his mouth looked poised to break into a smile—not a nice one.

It wasn't the kind of thing Brian would repeat, even if tortured, but seeing John Bender enjoying his own meanness . . . was hot in a way that made Brian understand why mean guys got all the girls.

Brian was really jealous of John getting all the girls—especially Claire, because although Brian would rather die than admit it he had just a little bit of a huge crush on her—but he had to admit, at the same time, he was a tiny bit jealous of all the girls getting John, too.

In fact, the inside of Brian Johnson was really confusing in the areas that weren't occupied by physics, math, or literature. It was why he couldn't talk straight, maybe. He just wasn't quite . . . straight, or quite . . . crooked.

He related this confusion to the way words that started out making sense got tangled when they passed through his conflicting impulses on the way to his mouth. Bent, like light through a prism.

He could explain that effect, but not his own confusion. Better not to try.

Brian couldn't see any more of what was happening in the hallway, but John was keeping watch.

"What's up?" asked Brian, bringing himself back to reality and hoping any dazed expression on his face only looked dorky.

"I just don't wanna deal with those girls," muttered John. It didn't matter what his face looked like, realized Brian. John wasn't paying any attention.

"Past conquests?"

John shuddered, "Not even. Just chill a sec, yeah?" He ducked back into the doorway and folded his arms, smirking.

From the hallway, the sounds of the girl pulling at the locker began to get more and more frantic. Soon it was pounding, the twang of fist on metal unmistakable. The note in the voice edged toward panic. "Omigod, Heather, all my books and notes are in there and I've got two tests tomorrow! I'm going to have to get the janitor or something, it just won't open."

Another voice commented, "I'm not sure you _even want_ to open it. Something smells _nasty._ What do you have in there, last week's lunch?"

"_No._ As _if_ that smell is coming from my locker. _Grody_. C'mon."

Brian eyed John Bender hard. "What's going on?"

John shrugged. "Who knows? Lockers jam all the time. The world's an imperfect place." He looked at Brian, who smiled at being in on an in-joke. Of course he himself was not John Bender's main concern. But it was—awesome—that Brian was any concern of his at all.

In fact, John looked affectionate. It wasn't hot, but Brian thought he liked it better.

"C'mon. Let's find that electrician and go shoot some pool."

***

They'd been hanging in the shop room conversing quietly with Kenny when Carl the janitor showed up. "Kids, is Pizzolato around?" He looked at John and nodded in recognition, but didn't say anything.

Nodding back, Bender drawled, "Well, if it isn't the eyes and ears of this institution. What's new in the custodial arts?"

Carl smirked, unbothered by the sarcasm. "Bender, I'm afraid to even say it 'cause I know it will upset you, but it appears that unknown parties have perpetrated a practical joke against an innocent young girl." He shook his head in mock wonder.

Bender snorted. "Impressive. Where'd someone find one of those?"

An even louder snort emerged from Brian, who then choked and immediately blushed to his ears. Kenny laughed.

"Yo, Pizz!" shouted Carl, "Gotta blow torch?"

Mr Pizzolato popped up from behind a workbench and pushed safety goggles over his forehead. "Doesn't leave the shop. Liability insurance. What the blazes you need with a blowtorch, Carl?"

"Locker fused shut. From the smell of it, garbage inside. At first I thought it was just the lock, but I cut it with boltcutters and it turns out some genius managed to epoxy the whole locker shut, too."

Mr Pizzaloto's lips formed an "o" and he blew out, making a low whistling sound. "Well, I don't think you're gonna want a blow torch. They'd probably have to replace the whole locker bank. Lemme think. Acetone would work, but, it might be hard to get it in where the glue is."

"Who was it?" Kenny asked, making conversation. "I mean, the girl."

Brian wanted to know, too. She'd seemed familiar, but he hadn't really gotten a good look at her. He had also noticed that despite her desperation, he'd felt no sympathy for her at all.

Carl scratched his head, thinking. "Well, I don't suppose that's a state secret, since she's screaming her lungs out in the hall all afternoon. I'm surprised you can't hear it down here."

"Drag," muttered Bender. Carl shot him a warning look and he held up his hands, "Sue me, I'm a sucker for screaming girls . . ."

This time it was Mr Pizzolato who shot Bender the warning look.

"Anyway," said Carl, warming to his audience, "it was a lovely lady by the name of Ruth-Ann Daniel."

"Oh, she's a _bitch,_" said Kenny and Brian in unison.

John Bender didn't say a word, didn't look at Carl, who didn't look at him, either.

This kind of outburst from Kenny earned a look of pure surprise from Mr Pizzolato. "What's eating you, kid?" he asked, interested, "not your kind of language." He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly a little confused. "She do something to your girl?" Mr Pizzolato liked Kenny, and one of the things he liked about him was that he did not get dragged down into all that dumb stuff among the kids. Good, level head, eye on the prize, friendly but kept himself to himself.

Bender was pretty surprised at Kenny, too. Even more so, when the kid started coloring up.

"Not _my_ girl—um, I mean, no. That Ruth-Ann just—she pisses me off. She—she's the kind of girl that just likes to make trouble for people, just out of spite—and for people who are, you know, trying to do good things, too, for—other people, I mean other in the sense of different from the people they normally might, um, do good things for."

Brian snickered. "Even I had trouble following that."

Frowning slightly, Bender looked curiously at his old friend. It was true, the usually even-keel Kenny _did_ sound like Brian friggin Johnson. _What was up with that?_

"Like, for example . . ." he probed, looking for more. John Bender began to get the distinct sense that he was missing something. He knew, of course, that the others were missing something, too, or at least he hoped so, but he liked to be the one with the most and best info at all times.

"For example, Ruth-Ann was really mean to me," blurted Brian, who actually had known her only by name before two minutes ago, "in, um, class. When I was trying to help someone with their problem set. Someone popular, you know, who I wouldn't normally help. Like what Kenny said. I told Kenny about it. He doesn't like that kind of girl."

Kenny shook his head, relieved, apparently agreeing with Brian's confused assessment. "No, sir, I do not."

John looked sharply at Brian. _What the hell?_ First Kenny sounds like Brian and now Brian is speaking _for_ Kenny? Well. Whatever. He guessed he's been wrong about nothing ever changing. And just like that, he felt his mood and his heart lift just a little.

All he needed sometimes, was just a _little thing,_ just something to grasp onto, to pull himself up and remind him that change was, in fact, a possibility.

Even if that little thing was nonsensical, weird, and probably totally stupid. It could be a start.

Carl looked slowly around the faces of the boys in the room, but his face remained impassive. "Hmm," was all he said.

Mr Pizzolato looked around at the faces of the boys in the room, too, and at Carl's face. It looked to him like everyone was hiding _something,_ and he couldn't figure out for the life of him why, since none of them looked like the kind of person who would have much to do with someone like Ruth-Ann Daniel. He remembered her, himself. She'd been the kind of girl to take shop to get close to a boy, but the way she'd gotten close to him was to wind him up, brushing against him, and then sneer at the poor kid in front of everyone for working with his hands. Then he'd caught the two of them going at it behind the plastics press one afternoon. And she'd still treat him like dirt in public. Piece of work.

But he kept these thoughts to himself, naturally. Although girls like that didn't see it, Gene Pizzolato was a professional through and through.

Scratching his head, Mr Pizzolato decided that whatever was going on with any of these three kids, that girl, Carl, and an epoxied locker, he would let it go. He didn't need to go out of his way for a girl like that. "Well, you know what'd probably work, is some oven cleaner. With an aerosol, so you could spray it into the cracks to get at the glue. Thing is, I'm fresh out of oven cleaner. You got any on you, Carl?"

Carl patted down his pockets, straight faced. "You know, Pizz, I am fresh out, myself."

Brian Johnson made a show of turning his own pockets inside out, then snorted, managing not to choke this time and looking proud.

"Well, fellas," Carl intoned, "it looks like the damsel in distress may just have to wait another day because I don't think I'll have time to make it to the store and back before quitting time—plus it will take some time for that EZ-off clean action to kick in, if I'm not mistaken." His face darkened. "I should get overtime, though, for breaking the news to her. That girl has a mouth on her."

"I'll do it," volunteered all three boys at once.

Shaking his head, Carl exchanged a look with Mr. Pizzalato. "No can do, boys, but I tell you what, you can watch. Just stay out of sight. Deal?"

"Y'know, sometimes I hear nothing, here in the shop, with these loud machines," muttered Mr Pizzalato, pulling his eyeguard back down.

As the boys followed the janitor out, if anyone saw the look pass between Carl and John Bender, no one said a word.

***

Later, John Bender was teaching Brian Johnson pool and Brian Johnson was teaching John Bender the principals of physics. Brian was quivering what with being in a real pool hall, with a bar, and men with long hair and ponytails and tattoos. They had eaten burgers and French fries, which John had insisted on putting on his tab.

"All I need is one rich prick to come in here thinking he can get the better of me and I'm good for it, Eddie, you know that," he muttered to the manager.

"Yeah, you better, or you'll be washing dishes til morning," threatened the older man, scratching his stubbled chin. But the threat did not reach his eyes.

Soon the two boys settled into a pattern of talking, then pausing while John would make a shot and Brian would get excited about the principles of physics it involved, and then they would talk a little more. After they had reminisced a while about the beauty of seeing Ruth-Ann Daniel lose her shit all over Shermer High while Carl the Kick-Ass Janitor remained cooler than ice, they began to talk about John's life.

This time it was John Bender who was tongue-tied.

He tried to think of it as another one of those stupid little things that reminded him change was possible. But really, it just felt stupid.

"I don't know, man. I mean, you know, Claire, and I, and—"

Christ. Now _he_ sounded like Brian. Maybe it was contagious or something.

But Brian just nodded. "Yep. I know."

"And she's just, really—"

Brian nodded again. "I get that."

John took a deep breath. See? Talking about his feelings and private shit like, a mile a minute. Since Brian Johnson was of course completely fluent in Inarticulate Retard, they were communicating just great. "And I, just me, I mean, it's ok, with my dad, and whatever, no big deal, it's ok, but she—"

"No, it's not." Brian put his hand on John's shoulder. John's first instinct was to slap it away but instead he let it stay. He turned to the shorter boy and looked a question.

Brian explained, calmly. "It's not ok that he does that. Like that, with the bruise. John—seriously, can you leave?"

John paused, sizing up a shot on the table. 5 ball, corner pocket. Not a problem.

"I'm fucking seventeen, so no, not really. Plus where else am I gonna go, y'know? I mean, I stay around, but I can't just be a burden to people, I can't really pay my own way, not all the way, not and finish school, and if—if I tell anyone—"

John trailed off. This was fucking humiliating. He breathed, closed his eyes, opened them, and sank the shot.

Brian was fascinated by the difference between Bender's smooth, confident movements around the pool table and the anxiety in his voice as he spoke about his life.

"That was roughly a ninety degree vector, which requires us to assume the same mass for the cueball and the target ball. The angle also allows us to understand that on that shot, your cue ball hit the five ball at its center—without follow or draw, which would skew the vector." As usual, the words flowed calm and smooth from his mouth as soon as they pertained to physics.

"Huh?" Apparently, John didn't speak brilliant as well as Brian spoke Retard.

"It's a lot about vectors. See," and now Brian looked shy and his voice was softer, "I could explain to you the physics of pretty much every shot you make, but I can barely sink anything."

John chuckled. "That's cause you're too much of a spaz. Seeing the shot is only half the battle, it's also a lot about the stroke." He demonstrated, going right up to the cue ball with the stick but pulling back, not touching it, cool and calm and smooth. "You're so twitchy. I bet if you got laid, you could sink twice as many balls."

Brian looked up at him and laughed. Not a giggle, just a normal laugh. John figured it was progress.

"Goes without saying, right?" John rubbed his head. "So, not like the physics of pool isn't really fucking fascinating, but what about the rest of it—you know," he gestured off into somewhere toward the Miller Light wall clock, as if the rest of his life was lurking up there somewhere between "tastes great" and "less filling."

"Yeah, well," Brian shuffled uncomfortably, "that's actually where I was going with the physics and not being able to make a shot. Like, I can find out, technically, what are some options, and I can explain them, but that doesn't mean that I'm a good person to know anything about what it would actually mean to have them happen, you know?"

"Right." Kid had a point. "Well, for starters, I'm pretty sure Family Services are out. If they pulled me it'd be into foster or probably a group home, cause not that many people want to foster fucked up teenage boys and those that do are probably way too fucked up themselves, you know?" John looked at Brian, expecting an argument. It would seem obvious to a rational person that if there were people paid to protect you, you should call them. "I mean, I could go from getting slapped around some to getting slapped around a lot, you know?"

To Bender's surprise, though, Brian nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah," he said sadly. "We—I mean, John, this shouldn't be secret, some of us—you know, from Saturday, earlier we were talking, because—we figured we knew what happened when you had that bruise and we were wondering why you never said anything and then Allison—I think she might have looked into child services for herself at some point, you know? And she said she didn't think it would be the thing. Another problem is that sometimes once you report abuse, people are legally obligated—you can't stop the process, you lose control, which given how old you are, you need more of, not less. So I—did some other research. There's something called emancipation."

"Just a second. I have to concentrate." Brian paused as John lined up another shot. This one was trickier. Reverse English. A balance between speed and spin. He breathed, focused, the cue shot forward, smooth, no jerk. And it was in.

"Reducing cloth friction, requires a firm stroke. . ." Brian was muttering.

"Keep your masturbation to yourself in here, big Bri," chuckled John.

"No, that was an incredible shot," Brian was all excitement—literally, about physics. What a weird kid, thought John. Must be kind of cool, though, to be excited about something that could actually get you somewhere. Couldn't make much of a career out of fingering Claire Standish's cashmere collection. _Although the college essay would be fun as hell to write. _

_It is the unparalleled access to cashmere sweaters that attracts me to Harvard; my underprivileged background has meant that my experiences are limited but I have been making up for lost time. I am a quick study in rich cashmere groping, I can fucking assure you, Harvard, now please let me come . . ._

OK, enough of that. John looked around quickly and adjusted his pants. Brian was still going on about reverse English. "It was all about—about the pool _table, _the cloth, not just where you hit the ball, although that has to be high. I could show you the calculations."

John shook his head. Kid was crazy, and the combination of physics and pool sounded even more like sex than pool usually did and sex made John think of Claire _again_, which reminded him that it was not just cashmere, but _Claire's_ cashmere that he wanted, with her in it, warming it with her skin, soft on soft, which brought him back to the whole reason he was trying to talk this shit out in the first place.

"So, um, Bri—emancipation, like the slaves?" John prodded.

Talk about reverse English. Here was John Bender trying to talk about serious issues and all the biggest geek in school wanted to talk about was pool.

"Oh, right, sorry, not exactly like the slaves, but I guess a little bit. You'd get freed from your parents. Legally. You go to court."

Raising his eyebrows, John stopped dead in his tracks. He could get free? "Where's the catch?"

Brian took a deep sigh. "Well, that's the—um, I think you have to be able to demonstrate maturity. Like, in the way grown-ups would see it. Hold a job, live apart, financial independence, school activities, maybe mentoring . . ."

John's hopeful face darkened and a scowl deepened with every word on the list. Brian went on.

"And then—your parents would have to agree, or you'd have to say why they shouldn't have to. For that, there'd need to be witnesses—over eighteen, probably. So, I think first, you'd need a job, references, and a place to live. How do you get money now?"

John gestured toward the pool table, then shrugged unhappily. "Plus maybe a few other. . . retail ventures."

Brian held his hand up. "Don't even say it. So, first you gotta get a job. And then maybe, do something—responsible looking. Like, volunteer at a boys' club or something." John shot him a look and gestured at himself up and down. "Well, maybe not. But something. I don't know."

Sighing, John started looking for his next shot. "All right, well, _that's_ not fucking happening." All of that sounded pretty unBenderlike. Too much change all at once. Setting himself up. "Maybe I can just crash on Skins' floor."

Bank shot. Side pocket. Cake. It should all be that fucking easy.

He looked up at Brian to see if he had any other bright ideas but Brian was looking over Bender's shoulder toward the door. Come to think of it, every guy in the place was looking toward the door. Motorcycle guys. Beefy bearded rock guys. Scrawny drug guys. Preppy guys trying to look cool. All of them. And the girls some of them were with—they looked none too happy about it.

And no fucking wonder, because, as John saw as soon as he turned around to see what the fuss was about, she was wearing shiny little red heeled boots and jeans that made her legs look eight miles long and then tapered into a cut up t-shirt. The shirt was black and sliced and angled to show a razor thin slice of belly and some collarbone and it looked like some shoulder but then skin disappeared under a little black leather jacket. Spike heels, tight jeans, torn cotton, black leather on pale skin.

In other words, custom-made wet dream.

Her hair was a little messy like someone had been running his hands threw it and it had been him and _fucking hell_ did Claire Standish look hot in his pool hall.

She was leaning against the wall by the door, hands shoved in her leather pockets, zippers probably digging into her wrists, but gently. John would like to get in on a little of that. One leg hiked up a little on the wall. He would like to get in on a little of _that_ shit, too. Christ, did this rich girl look good against a dirty wall.

The darkest, most powerful desire coursed through John Bender's veins, so strong he couldn't move a muscle. Those legs, he wanted wrapped around him. _Those boots, _he wanted digging into his ass. Right. Fucking. Now.

And she was also beautiful. Red and blue light from the neon sign in the window reflected on her skin and hair, flashing and glowing like her eyes sometimes did when she looked at him. But with the red and blue, it made her look like she was in a movie, dressed up to fit in but still standing out, electric, a play of light and color.

Except the people in movies didn't know who the hell he was, they had eyes only for each other, and Claire been watching _him_. It showed in her eyes. Because when she looked at him, what flashed and glowed was _want_.

_Right back at you, Princess._

Claire saw John's eyes find her and she smiled one of her little smiles that looked like it was trying not to be one and John felt so much electricity throb through his groin and his stomach and his chest where his heart was that he thought he might literally pass out.

He smiled the same smile back at her. They were doing that thing where they watched each other want each other which was like foreplay in itself but now she was doing that in front of all these people and John was sure he was suddenly six inches taller or some shit.

Every dude in the place was clearly thinking, who's that girl?

The queen of Shermer High had come to Bailey's Billiards to see _him,_ John Bender. How the hell and why the hell and how had she even known of its existence and where to find him were questions he should have probably asked but _fuck_ she was looking at him like he was God.

_Christ_ that was hot.

She bit her lip, then licked at it. John Bender thought he might come in his goddamn pants.

Not a bad idea. But not alone. He'd make Claire come in those sexy fucking money soaked jeans, then he'd christen his 501s, he had a change of clothes in his backpack, and then—

Whoa. Maybe he should say hi or something first considering he'd been a first class prick to her for all but about three minutes of the day and had made all these resolutions about how he was going to be awesome to her instead.

_Inducing orgasm could be considered_ totally_ awesome,_ pointed out his boy parts, who saw no conflict here.

John rolled his eyes and darted a look over to Brian, hoping as ever that a good Johnson visual would calm those parts right back down again. But Brian just raised his eyebrows and gave John a look that said, "are you dense?"

Before John could think to be taken aback by that kind of attitude from his geekwad friend, he looked around him. What he saw was enough to shake himself out of his Claire- and hormone-induced trance, pronto. Because guys were heading toward her from every corner of the hall like her magnet pull suddenly extended to every dickhaving member of the species, and one dude was clearly going to beat him to her.

Now his gut was clenching with a very different feeling. It was a newish feeling for him but it was really just a stronger version of things he'd been feeling all week.

It went like this: "Hands off, she's mine."

The full court press of pool hall skeeves also reminded John that Claire wasn't actually a movie, porno or otherwise, she was a girl who was way out of her element and zip code and probably feeling more than fucking uncomfortable at the prospect of Tony "The Rocket" Canetti coming on to her with his Hell's Angel's jacket and gold tooth. He wasn't a bad guy, but he was also not a small guy or a good-smelling guy.

Ricky Mallone, however, was more than goodlooking in an oily sort of way and he smelled like a goddamn cologne factory or some shit and John was even more interested in making sure he got _nowhere_ near Claire, because he clearly made a hobby out of underaged girls.

Christ, Claire fucking Standish was in John Bender's own not at all very nice pool hall and _what the living fuck_ was she doing there, the place was filled with horny-ass not very nice at all guys who looked at her and saw fine, rich, pussy and he could not possibly take every one of them all at once and—

John Bender dropped his pool cue and vaulted over a chair that was blocking his way. He straightened himself up and swaggered over to Claire, who was looking nervous and sweet and sexy at the same time, obviously trying to be polite to Rocket and not shy away from him like she probably wanted to because he totally looked like any nice respectable girl's nightmare and probably was, for all that he was a little bit of a softy in an asshole kind of way.

"Hey, Princess, about time you got here, babe," said John nonchalantly. He grabbed her waist and pulled her into his side like he'd been doing it all his life.

"She's one of _yours,_ Bender?" Rocket looked incredulous.

One of. Christ. Claire Standish would no doubt fucking love being included in the mythic stable of John Bender's pool hall ponies. Well fucking played, dude.

John glared deep and meaningfully at Rocket and studiously avoided Claire's gaze. It didn't escape him, however, how Claire's body tensed against his side and under his arm. "She's not one of anything, asshole. And girls aren't property but on the other hand, damn right, she's mine, so fuck off." He shot a glare towards Ricky for good measure.

It further didn't escape John Bender that what he had just said was a massive laughable fucking contradiction, but somehow that didn't matter, it was totally true, both sides of it at the same time. Plus it made Claire relax into his side a little more.

Still not looking at Claire because he was afraid to turn into a total babbling puddle of goo, hich could happen so suddenly when he looked at her if he wasn't careful, and which was an especially bad idea in a pool hall full of horny pricks who had their eyes on his girl, John steered her toward the table where he and Brian had been playing. He whispered in her ear, "Sorry for the caveman bullshit, sweetheart, but some of these guys aren't joking around. Come over here so you can tell me to what I owe the distinct pleasure and total fucking shock of you showing up here."

Claire just leaned into him further and then she put her hand down his back pocket so she was palming his ass and just like that John was twitching all over again. On top of that she leaned reached up and whispered in his ear, "I can't even tell you how hot that was."

At this, John looked down at her, goo puddle risk be damned. Her face was all glowy and flashing more than it had under the neon and her lips were looking like they were just aching to be more swollen from being kissed. Her t-shirt was gapping and exposing skin and basically it just said, why do you not have the girl wearing me moaning up against a brick wall?

Yup. Loud and clear. Clear as day. At least in John Bender's dialect.

"Hey, Bri," John muttered, not much trusting his voice.

"Hi, Brian, this is a surprise," Claire said somewhat unconvincingly.

"I know, total shock, isn't it? Who would have thought I'd be here, right? I mean, how would you ever know?"

John Bender was paying little to no attention, however, to the interactions between entities that were not his own teenage boy parts and _any_ part of Claire Standish dressed like that. "Listen, Dorkwad. I want you to practice your bank shots. Be very careful about your arm, keep it steady. Don't play anyone for money, no matter how bad they seem. Rocket! If anyone gives my man, Bri, here, any shit, you stop'em, ok?" Rocket owed him after that "one of yours" comment. "Claire has come here to talk to me about some very important shit, so, um, we'll be right back."

John released Claire from his side and took her hand to make maneuvering through the pool tables easier. There was a back door and by the back door there was a perfectly serviceable alley, hopefully no one would be smoking a j. back there. Whatever, if they were they were going to get a show.

Wait. Remember about saying hi first because of having been a total shit to her all day?

He opened the door for her. Check that shit out.

And then it was John and Claire in an alley.

Talking was not working for him right now. He managed, "So?" Major fucking victory, right there.

"So . . ." She bit her lip a little, and then smiled and John wanted to _eat_ her mouth. "So, I heard Ruth-Ann Daniel screaming in the hall after school. Do you know. . ." She moved her hand to toy with the button on John's jacket, darted her eyes up to his face, then looked down again, quickly. She dropped her hand, then put it on her hip. "Do you know that someone glued her locker shut? And I think there was garbage in it." And then her eyes were on him, wide and alive and intense with _something,_ but in this moment, John found them unreadable.

"Is that right." John was right back to trying to avoid her stare. Shit. Was she _pissed?_

She was pissed. Claire probably thought of the girl as a friend and he had overstepped boundaries or dirtied her territory or fucked up in some other way a fuck-up like him couldn't even imagine.

Well tough shit. That bitch had fucked with John Bender. There were rules about that.

Plus what was more, she'd fucked with John Bender's girl. So maybe that was too recent a situation to have rules, especially since the girl in question hadn't exactly gotten updated on her new status, or agreed to it, or anything like that.

Whatever happened with that, though, Claire Standish had come to his pool hall and looked at him _like that._ And she'd already made his shitty day better, even before that. Not to mention the scarf and the cashmere lessons and the stupid princess bed. Given all that, there sure as _hell_ were going to be rules about what happened to anyone who even tried to look at her wrong, much less fuck with her. Damn straight.

Now, though, the fact remained that Claire was down here, on his turf, where strictly speaking she had no business being because it really wasn't quite safe for someone like her to be wandering around here, which probably meant she was too pissed off to be thinking clearly. And John just didn't feel like having anyone be angry at him, even Claire. He felt his defenses go up and he crossed his arms over his chest. "And?"

"And," Claire moved up closer to him, but didn't touch him, "that was so unbelievably hot. And for some reason, the fact of Ruth-Ann Daniel screaming in the hall made me think of you and suddenly I had to see you or I was going to die, I don't understand it, I have no idea even how I made it this long."

Her breath was coming fast, and John could hear it in her voice. Her voice was shaking with it. She had started out trying to be controlled and she failed, totally fucking failed to control it.

John could feel the white coming over his vision and he knew he was going to let go just a little bit too, because he'd identified what it was he was seeing and hearing in Claire that he hadn't quite recognized before and it wasn't anger. He'd gotten confused because anger and want got so confused for them, but this was different.

It was. Total. Fucking. Lust.

He knew his hands were shaking, he put them on her hips just to steady them and slowly walked her backwards toward the wall, the air between their bodies acting like a thousand tiny hands fanning flames all over his skin.

Just one more thing. Then he'd know and she'd know that he'd at least made a start.

"Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"Just one thing. I'm gonna get a job, ok? And Claire?" He could hear his own voice, barely recognizable, rough from the same raw lust that was making his hands shake and Claire's voice almost disappear.

"Yeah?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Hi."

* * *

note on the text: English and reverse English is American for putting spin on the ball . . .

If you're old enough and so inclined, see you soon in the M-Rated companion fic Really Good Feelings for . . . the rest of this scene, about which John Bender may have given you some idea. If that's not your thing, any plotlike events that sneak into the smut will be recapped at the beginning of the next chapter of this fic. Which will be updated, really, when I can.

I appreciate all your reviews, alerts, favorites, PMs, etc, and although I prefer critical to downright nasty, I do appreciate _all_ of them. Except the ones that say, "Your fic sucks, and you suck for not updating it faster." Really. Pick one.

Reviewers get pool lessons from John Bender, and for everyone else . . . the Physics of Pool with Brian Johnson, which is actually really interesting and does not suck (although, certain reviews notwithstanding, everything I know about sucking, I swear I learned from Cosmo!).

Cheers!


	22. Chapter 21

AN: Owned by the copyright owners, not by me. So I'm keeping my day job, which is making me mad busy! This one goes out to readers who broke through and made me find time--strangeasangels and bobbiemcgee. If only feeling good was good enough for our heroes!

* * *

(recap from the M-rated outtakes—you can fill in the blanks from there Or read "Really Good Feelings" if you're old enough)

_John pushed away a little and gave her a look. "So you think that's funny?"_

_Claire shook her head no but said, "yes," and then leaned her head back, shaking with giggles. "I just—I can't help it, I feel so good, and now I see what all the fuss is over and women are always complaining that they can't have them and I have one in the back alley without even really getting to third base!"_

"_I gotta say, you do look pretty fucking delighted." John started chuckling too. "That was really your first one?"_

_She nodded, biting her lip. John looked like he liked that idea pretty well. "Y'know, it always will be, too," he said. "No matter who you end up with, where you go, how much money that motherfucker has, it's always gonna be me who was first, huh? Here, just me, against a brick wall, with all your clothes on." He shook his head, trying to get his mind around the idea._

_The atmosphere had changed and Claire stopped laughing. Her hand rose to his face and brushed his hair back, lingering on his jaw. "That's right, John, it'll always be you."_

_He inhaled sharply and his eyes darkened at that. Then John Bender just looked at her, steadily, as if memorizing, stroking her face, as if his fingers were memorizing too. Then, abruptly, he shook his head like a dog clearing water from his ears. "Well, fuck me, that's some all right shit, then, Standish." He dug into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and leaned up against the wall beside her._

* * *

Just what I've been through  
Is nothin like what I'm going to,  
Give me some sign to pursue  
And you're unhappy . . .  
This is only a guess.

--Violent Femmes

Inside the pool hall it was clear that John Bender had been a hundred percent right about Brian's strange ability to fit in with all kinds of people as long as they weren't in high school. The big man named Rocket was standing near him, arms folded, a look on his face that was half paternal pride, half wonder. A group of about ten ranging in age from fifteen to about sixty were standing around Brian watching him explain the physics of each of their shots as they lined them up and took them. He would explain what they needed to do, and if they made the shot it would happen exactly as he said, and if they missed, he could explain the physics of their errors. He looked up at John and Claire as they walked in, smiled and waved, and looked back at the pool table before him.

John nudged Claire with his body and tightened his hold against her hip. Claire giggled and leaned into him. This felt wonderful and wanton, to be here in the red and brown and smoky pool hall, so far from anyone who knew her, still high from those amazing _feelings_ he'd made in her. She was plastered up against John's side like some…gangster moll or something. She didn't know how she could feel so owned and so free at the same time and for the same reason.

He whispered to Claire to go to the ladies' room while he used the men's to change, he didn't want to leave her alone. She nodded and did as she was told, enjoying that more than she thought she should, but liking the sense of being taken care of, especially compared to how the first part of their day had gone. The memory of John Bender sacrificing himself to protect her in Saturday detention invariably set her inner butterflies fluttering full speed, and this overprotective echo of that first hint of sweetness in him was something her still-bruised heart badly needed.

In the bathroom, she took the opportunity to fix her makeup. There was a lot of it, and their alley activities had moved it around pretty dramatically. She shook her head at the face that stared back at her in the mirror. Who_ was_ that girl?

When she came out to join him, he was buying them sodas at the bar, he gave her one and clinked glasses. "Here's to your first," he said, staring in a way that made her legs go liquidy all over again. She bit her lip and blushed, then looked up at him though her face was angled down in embarrassment.

"I don't think you're supposed to drink to yourself, John," she said quietly.

Catching her meaning, he shook his hair back, smiled more broadly and nodded. "Well, why the hell not?"

John Bender. Claire felt proud to be with him. He bent to kiss her, loud and hard, then sauntered over to the pool table, clearly still feeling cocky as hell from his…accomplishment in the alley. He motioned for a pool cue, then asked Brian for the hardest _possible_ shot on the board. Brian explained and the faces of the men grew serious, evaluating. They nodded. "What do I get if I make it?" John asked, shaking his head back again and looking challenges at all the men gathered there.

"Fifteen minutes out back with a redhead?" called out a young-looking guy with a greasy pony tail. He snickered.

"Sure, or maybe—mouth off like that again and the nine-ball goes down your motherfucking throat, Garcia." said John in a lighthearted tone. But the tilt of his eyebrow was as clear a threat as a raised fist and the man backed off.

Claire watched, fascinated, strangely seduced and revolted at the same time that she, _she_ of all people, was here where men were trying to make bets on her sexual favors.

_Oh, come on, like that never goes on in the boys' locker room?_ she thought to herself, chidingly. _Maybe so, but—not right out in public like that._

Again she noted how…arousing it was when John got all dangerous and protective. Of course it was a little messed up that she liked that. What else was new?

But she protected him too. At least she was trying. He might not know it, but didn't that make it more….real? Like if you gave money anonymously—didn't that count for more? Claire tried to push back the nagging doubts she had about interfering in John's life at all. He was proud. She had no experience. It could go so wrong.

Having no one step in, though, to shield him—he was getting knocked stupid from every corner of his life. Everyone looked on. No one did anything. And no one could do everything alone. She had to try. She had to try the only way she knew how.

The less she thought about it the better, at this point. It was all out of her hands now. Better to feel than think for now.

Claire took a deep breath and shook her head, bringing herself back to her surroundings. The red carpeting and the dingy green of the felt on the pool tables gave the place a kind of demented Christmas décor she hadn't noticed before. The world, she thought, was so full of different places. Here, in this place, people seemed to defer to John Bender—even big and scary looking guys like Rocket. Here _she_ got status by being with him.

What was it about him? And did these people know how his father beat him and his mother spat insults and how the principal got his jollies out of bringing him down in front of other kids, or, she suspected, alone in dark places? Was that part of Bender's draw for these people, that he could just take it, whatever life threw? Did they know or care that he couldn't, really? Did they know that he crumbled and raged inside?

No, Claire thought. John looked inviolable. Cocksure. More than a little scary. He looked at the pool table like a general surveying a battlefield, he smiled as someone poured some liquid from a flask into a glass of soda and he downed a large gulp.

"All right, ladies, put up or shut up," he drawled, wiping his lip on his sleeve.

Now all the men were starting to put money on the side of the pool table. "What do we get if you _don't_ make it?" called a voice.

"C'mon. I already got you physics lessons," smirked Bender, gesturing toward Brian, "what more do you want?"

"At least a pitcher or two," put in another voice.

John chuckled. "All right, all right—but then you gotta pony up another few bucks each."

Claire didn't really understand what was going on. It was like the men were betting, but they weren't—not exactly. They didn't really stand to win anything. They were giving John money if he made shots in pool—so maybe some of those men, at least, did know he was in trouble? Wanted to help out? Or maybe they were just bored.

Actually, Claire had to admit that she didn't understand anything that was going on in the scene before her. The men and boys were all wrapped up in balls and sticks and money and, weirdly, physics—but there wasn't any sign that something _else_ was going on. If they had been girls, it all would have meant something other than what it was, the relationships between balls would have been stand-ins for other kinds of relationships and everything would have been a code.

Was there a code? Were men passing secret messages, trading or ruining alliances, making covert plans as they gathered around the pool table? Or were they just really that interested in pool? They seemed so. . . worked up, anxious and eager or fearful that John would make his shot or that he wouldn't.

Men like this were such a mystery, so different from Claire, of course, but also from her father and the men he knew, who seemed soft and mild but also sensitive in comparison—even though she knew he really wasn't. She would have said, these men were different from Brian, too, although watching him sitting there, completely absorbed by the balls and sticks like some kind of referee or coach to the pool players, she felt less sure of that difference than she would have only an hour earlier.

The fact was, Claire felt less sure of everything. Part of certainty had clearly been left out in that alley, right there up against the wall when she learned that _that_ could happen, that someone could make her feel _that_, that someone could just, open her like that, like a flower to the universe, each feeling delicate, touchable, easily bruised.

She smiled at her thought, a flower to the universe in a back alley, groin and ass ground into a wall, torn t-shirt, tight jeans, and garbage strewn around. Still, it had felt just that very way.

But that was her. John—he seemed suddenly so. . . all about pool. Really absorbed. The whole way his body set toward the table, walked round it, tense and relaxed at the same time. It was like every fiber of his being was oriented to the secret paths between balls and cues his eyes traced on the green table. He looked so sexy like that, then he leaned over the table and he'd taken his coat off and his jeans stretched across his ass, flexing . . . it made Claire catch her breath—but it didn't escape her he looked oblivious to anything but the pool table. Oblivious to Claire.

And that made her shudder, that he could be so focused on something else after _that,_ just as it seemed to her that the entire axis of the world had shifted and now seemed to be turning even more fixedly around John Bender than it already had been.

For him, maybe, it was just all groin and ass.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, focused on playing her inner John Bender mix tape. "I always want you like this. All the fucking time," he'd said. His tone was so intense, rough, just barely controlled with the wanting. But what did wanting _mean_ to him? You make me hard and I want to get off? It seemed that his hands on her, where they went, how they went, where they stopped, waiting, where they _didn't_ go—they seemed to mean so much more than that.

But maybe—she was just being a girl.

She remembered what he'd said that had pushed her right over into that new place of feeling, "just _thinking_ about touching you beats fucking any other girl on the planet," he'd said, but slowly, in the rhythm of their bodies together. She tingled and throbbed all over again as she remembered how he'd punctuated every word of that sentence.

Had he meant that? Or had it been another way to get her off, using words more like tongues or fingers than like a way to mean something that would last when the touch was gone. But even as she thought this, the throbbing in her body got stronger and suddenly she didn't care, didn't care what any of it meant, suddenly she wanted to drag him back out into that alley and have him do it again.

But she couldn't. She could no more talk or walk at that moment, just from the memory, than she could think of the idea of not being with John Bender.

And he could just play pool.

Breathing deep and letting that breath blow out slow, Claire tried to find some calm place in her mind or body to be. How did people ever _do _this and not lose their minds, their souls, their selves in wondering if the other person's feelings matched their own?

On the other hand, rarely had Claire been more glad that her own thoughts were private. She was giving him space, proud that she could, that all her girly clinging was going on behind the scenes. He looked sexy as all hell as he made the shot Brian had outlined for him, and got high fives all around, including awkwardly from Brian, who punched him in the arm and looked proud of Bender, too.

In fact, everyone looked proud of Bender, and suddenly Claire was so happy he could have that experience after the hell that had been his morning that she actually clapped her hands like a little girl. She felt guilty for feelings that seemed so close to resentment. She was ashamed that she had felt jealous, actually jealous of a pool table, but knowing that really, she had.

Yes, thought Claire, it was a _fine_ thing that no one could see her feelings.

John pocketed the money from the edge of the pool table and turned to face her. "Check it out," he said coolly, "sky's the limit now, Princess. Anywhere you wanna go." He smiled a little sadly. "You know, for an appetizer or something."

Claire felt something clench inside her, a strange mix of happiness and pain. He should not be thinking of taking her out—but she knew he wanted to. Truth be told, she liked that, the wanting to part, but she wanted him to keep his money even more. She connected money with the hope of a way out for him, so she started to tell him not to waste his money on her, that she didn't need it, that she'd take him out, that it meant nothing to her—and then she stopped, biting her lip. Because she knew, suddenly, with some last shred of certainty that the alley had left her, that all those true things were wrong things to say.

She leaned up into him, trying her best to melt into his body. She whispered, "I don't know, John, from where I'm sitting, it's all downhill from the back alley."

John breathed in sharply and curled his arm around Claire's waist tightly as he pulled her into his side. The tips of his fingers grazed the side of her, under her shirt, skin on skin. "Jesus, Standish, I only brought one dry pair of jeans," he whispered, licking into her ear.

Claire fought the wave of desire enough to punch him in the arm. "Well," she sniffed, "I can't help it if you don't know enough to come prepared." Distraction successful.

John headed off to the bar to buy something, she didn't know what, clearly cash burned a hole in his pocket. She drifted over to Brian and met his eye, blushing. "So, I guess you did ok, you know, here," she began.

"Yeah, well, not as well as John," said Brian, only slightly ruefully, his eyes on Claire. He didn't even like to notice how sexy she looked when she'd been kissing John. But he did.

Claire's eyes instinctively traveled toward Bender at the mention of his name, and what she saw made her gasp, made her feel then like she might swallow her tongue, which would remain in her throat, swollen and painful and never quite going all the way down. Because John had some teased blonde bar girl pressed up into him. Claire stood transfixed. The girl was on him like one of those clingy sea creatures that sucks onto rocks. She had a perfect ass and spiked heels much taller than Claire's. Her lips were on his neck.

"I mean, well, you—I don't mean like that, whoa. Shit." Brian suddenly felt sick, too, as if he was in Claire's shoes, watching this go on.

Claire turned away from the girl on _her_ boy, wanting more than anything for him _not_ to see her seeing this. But she knew there was a mirror on the wall. She knew she could still watch without being seen. Brian, on the other hand, was staring openly. She kicked him.

"Ow," he said, without thinking.

"Sorry," muttered Claire, staring at the Budweiser mirror behind Brian's head.

In the mirror, between and amid the pictures of galloping horses, Claire saw John reach up to the girl's hands and slowly unwind them from his body—not, Claire had to note, unflirtatiously. But firmly enough that they eventually broke contact. Claire watched as he pushed her away—playfully—and poked her in the nose with a finger. His eyes looked warm as he looked at her still too close face, and he smiled.

He looked fond. She looked hungry.

There was no doubt in Claire's mind that this was another one of those girls. One of those girls he'd had sex with, probably more than once, one of those girls he did more than consider. One of those girls he liked so much, didn't want to hurt, the ones he'd laid in her bed and told her all about.

Claire stopped looking.

"Claire, wait—I mean, I think it's ok, I mean, I don't think John, you know—she just, you know, it was her, and he, like, didn't—"

"Brian. Shut up."

Breathing deeply, Claire looked anywhere but at John.

"Hey, I think he's looking at me trying to figure out if I saw, and if you saw."

"Brian. Talk about something else. Now." Claire's face looked strained.

Brian immediately obeyed. "So you were right, Principal Dick really didn't care what I had to say, but he did try to convince me to let Bender take the rap since I had so much potential. But it wasn't like with Andy." Brian shook his head. Why would schoolwork matter at a school, anyway?

Claire shrugged. "We knew that. But when—you know, it'll still matter that we all did it. D'you get in trouble?"

Brian rolled his eyes. "I have to tutor some guy in physics for free. I think he's on the tennis team. Imagine the horror." He noted Claire's complete lack of attention and changed topics. "So, John's buying corn chips. He bought them," reported Brian.

"Sorry, Bri, I'm distracted."

"Really?" asked Brian, a picture of innocence.

"Listen, when he comes back over here, but not before, unless he's with—" Claire took a deep breath. "When he comes back here, you're going to say you have to get home, and then I'm going to say I do too, and we're going to drive together. And you are not going to say a word, not _one word_ about my seeing anything or being upset, ok?"

"But Claire, if you're not upset, then why are you leaving? And he didn't do anything."

Claire shook her head. "Brian. Shut up. I know that. Just do what I'm asking, ok?"

Even Brian could hear the tremble in her voice and knew how—well he didn't know how, but in this case of being told explicitly to do so, he figured out how to keep his mouth shut.

The big man called Rocket turned to Brian at this point and shoved him playfully in the arm. "So, physics coach to the stars, hey, big guy?"

Brian chuckled and blushed. He managed not to say something like "Aw, shucks" which he understood correctly as a major social victory.

Rocket turned his attention to Claire and let his eyes linger over her body in appreciation, but it seemed so weirdly innocent that Claire couldn't even get uncomfortable. It seemed clear that where Rocket was coming from, the insult would be _not_ to look at her.

"Damn, that Bender sure traded up all of a sudden, didn't he," he said, shaking his head in obvious wonder. "I feel classier just standing _near_ you, baby."

Claire swallowed the "baby" because she _liked_ this guy, he'd looked after Brian and seemed somehow so. . . _nice_ under his big bushy beard, his beer belly, his studded sleeveless jacket and his grotesque tattoos. She shook her head, realizing what it was. He was being a gentleman—just in a different language or culture from the one she was used to.

"I'm sure you don't need any help being classy, Rocket," she said, sweetly teasing, with the tiniest hint of flirt—just for his being so nice.

Rocket barked a laugh and put his hand over his heart, letting his body fall back a step, dramatically indicating that an arrow had hit home.

She didn't say that there was nothing classy about the way she looked in _this _outfit, the slutty rocker clothes she'd put on so she'd fit in with him and the rest of the lowlifes and bimbos she had assumed John usually hung around with. And because, classy or not, she wanted to hot in a way that Ralph Lauren just didn't look.

Claire didn't say any of that to Rocket, and was a little ashamed of some of it, though she wasn't sure exactly which parts. She was just glad he'd come over to them, glad he'd helped pull her thoughts from the bad, stupid place they'd been.

She smiled at him shyly and the smile and the shyness were real.

Rocket smiled back, his hand still held over his heart. "Well, I sure hope that kid knows what's good for him and starts—" he glanced over toward the bar, where yet another blonde had joined Bender and seemed to be doing her best to shove her tits in his face. Laughing, John raised his hands, shaking his head and backing off. Rocket actually looked embarrassed for him. "You know he's always been a little popular with the ladies, sweetheart. But me, I'm a one-girl kinda guy, if I could interest you in the deluxe comfort model . . ."

Claire raised her brow and smiled wider. "Hmm, does it have leather seats?"

No harm in giving a guy like Rocket a little ego boost. While John was busy.

Shaking his head, Rocket blew a low whistle. "What in the name of sweet Jesus did that kid do to—" He turned to Brian. "How come some guys have all the luck, answer me that, Big guy?"

Brian's face turned roughly tomato-colored, since the question had been on his mind a good deal of the time recently, especially while John and Claire had been out in the alley. He figured Rocket wasn't probably having the same issues with trying to figure out exactly which of them he was jealous of and how, though. But he said, suddenly serious, "I think sometimes the ones who seem to—have all the luck, I mean—they're paying for it somewhere else, you know?"

Nodding quietly, also now somber, Claire agreed. "Yeah. Bender doesn't have all the luck."

"Really?" Rocket seemed genuinely surprised. "Pool game like that, girl like you, genius giving him pool pointers?"

He looked back and forth to the faces before him. Both looked serious, sad, not quite so young as they had a minute before. He looked long and hard at John, then closed his eyes, mentally cataloging something. Brian felt like he could almost see the checkmarks forming as Rocket went down his mental list.

"John get into a lot of fights at school?" he asked, slowly, opening his eyes.

Claire bit her lip and looked down, suddenly unsure what she could say or not say. This scene, these people—she was so far out of her element.

Brian, though, shook his head. "Not at school."

Rocket nodded, took a beat. "Not at school." He clenched his fists and looked at Brian, hard. "Not at school, huh? Other kids, outside of school? He in a gang?"

"No," muttered Brian, as if not being in a gang was the saddest thing that could happen.

Raising her eyes, Claire looked steadily at the older man and shook her head no.

Rocket closed his eyes and his upper lip twitched in a slight sneer. Claire noticed his fists were still clenched. "Not fighting much at school," he growled and shook his head in quiet rage. "Not at goddamn school."

None of them had noted John Bender walking up to join them, his brow furrowed. "Not at goddamn school, what, Rocket?" He sounded uneasy.

Whipping around, Rocket's face was transformed into a wide, innocent, teasing smile. "Not being at goddamn school is how I miss out on nabbing sweethearts like this, kid, how's a guy like me supposed to compete? How am _I _gonna pass her notes in Biology class and win her from you. What, she's gonna stop by my garage and help me rebuild a carburetor?"

John frowned slightly and put his arm around Claire's waist. Claire liked it there, but didn't plaster herself into him like she had been before the bar bimbo parade she'd witnessed. He'd put them all off, she told herself. He was here with her. She let his arm stay, let it stray down her hip. But she could feel her body tense and she knew he could, too.

"I guess you're just out of luck, then, Rocket," he said slowly, "She's—"

But Claire cut him off. "I don't know, John. I think any girl would be lucky to get a sweet guy like Rocket. One girl kinda guy. That counts for a lot."

John and the big man both snorted at "Sweet guy," and John laughed out loud. "Excellent. Sweet. You should see some of his uglier tattoos—or, on second thought, no, you really shouldn't."

Claire noted that John didn't react to the one girl kinda guy at all. Not one bit.

"Hey, now, everyone was young once," said Rocket a little sheepishly.

"Yeah, but not everyone who was young has tattoos that wouldn't be allowed on newsstands, y'know? And anyway, man, we're _still_ young, remember? Hey listen, though—"

Brian cleared his throat. "Um, John—speaking of, um, you know, competition? Like at school? Look who just walked in—I mean, Claire, maybe, don't turn around—"

A group of jocks from school had just walked in the door and were scoping the scene inside. Brian thought Claire was blocked from view by the mountain that was Rocket's body. But as he watched, a boy saw Bender and met his eye, locked on it, then turned away with a sneer. He muttered to his companions who repeated his reaction exactly. John stood with his arms crossed, staring without blinking.

Much to Rocket's evident shock, Claire burrowed her face in his chest and put her arms around him. She whispered into his ear, "Get me out of here now or it's going to get ugly for me. And for John. Really."

Brian could see how John's face went all hard lines and angles at the sight of Claire wrapped around even a guy like Rocket who couldn't be taken as any kind of threat or even half-way interest on her part. Rocket glanced a question at John and John nodded tersely as Rocket walked Claire out, arms around her, like a couple on their way to the alley to make out.

Claire could not have seen John's gesture since her face was buried in Rocket's chest, and Brian didn't think anyone else could see it either. John's attention was focused, but coolly, not intensely, on the group of boys from his school who had invaded his territory.

Without being signaled in any way that Brian could see, the group of guys who had been watching John play pool earlier began gathering around him again, their eyes fixed collectively on spaces between John and school boys, or between the school boys and the door. The direction and focus of their gazes signaled not direct challenge, but the ability and willingness to challenge if provoked. In a heartbeat, if need be.

One of the kids from school, Brian thought his name was John, too, and that maybe he was even a friend of Andy's, started to approach him, Brian. Brian looked down, not meeting his eyes.

"Hey, look, it's some geekwad from school. Hey geekwad, what are you doing here in lowlife central? Trying to get the nice men to clean their pool cues in your ass?"

Loud guffaws from his companions.

Brian shook his head, still not looking up. "No, no—I—I wasn't. Nope."

"Huh. Well then, I guess—you're just here, where geeks naturally find themselves, hanging with your good friend John Bender?"

Equally loud laughter.

Brian darted a quick look at John who nodded at him even less perceptibly than he had at Claire.

"Yep." Brian nodded vigorously. "That's, um—that's what I was doing. Why—um, why do you, you know, care? I mean. About what I'm doing here."

"Because, dickwad," the other John said nastily, "you're _our_ geek territory. Lowlifes like Bender can't even fuck with you if we want to fuck with you first."

John—_his_ John, Brian thought—spoke softly, barely moving. "No one fucks with Brian anymore. Not at school, and sure as _fuck_ not here. Rules have changed."

Another of the jocks called out, "Oh, unless we wanna fuck with you first, is that it?"

"That is it," John said slowly, smiling with half of his mouth and raising one eyebrow. "And trust me, you really don't wanna do that."

All the heads behind him, young and older, shook in agreement.

"Unless, of course," and here John tilted his head to one side, considering, "you fine gentlemen would like to take it up as a wager on the pool tables here."

The jocks looked at each other, nodding slowly and exchanging high fives. One made a comment in a kind of stage whisper about his father's billiard table, another spoke of wiping the table with the asswipe losers.

Brian decided it was time to leave. "Um, well, I'll, um—be going—"

John cut him off. "You can stay, Bri."

"Yeah, but—you know, I have, um, real physics, I mean, homework, and plus, um, remember, there was that other _thing_ I think you probably wanted me to take care of, since you're tied up."

John froze, then turned to Brian. "Fuck me. Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath. "Rack 'em, and take some initial bets," he directed a kid who'd been standing at his elbow, fists clenched around something that Brian thought looked like a switchblade. John's eyes moved over it briefly. "And put that shit away, Rico, you wanna get banned from here?" he asked softly.

He turned to his group at large. "I gotta square something with Big Bri, here, and I'll be back in a minute. You can break for me, and take a shot if you need to. But don't mess it up."

As Brian walked toward the door, it felt like every single guy in the entire place waved and called out the friendliest goodbyes he'd ever heard in his life. In reality, they probably just grunted, and he knew that, but the contrast between that and the kind of reaction he was used to from anyone but people exactly like him made Brian stand taller.

A room full of motorcycle guys and probably plumbers and carpenters and mechanics and maybe even drug dealers were making a point of telling a bunch of rich jocks that he, Brian, was with _them._ Guys who were bigger and scarier than a lot of other guys were actually _standing up_ for him instead of bickering with each over who got to torment him.

It was not at all believable as his life.

Next thing he knew, some hot girl or possibly guy was going to kiss him and then he would know for sure that he had died and gone to heaven or was dreaming.

From the feeling on his face he knew he was blushing and smiling at the same time and looked like the massive dork he was. He waved back. He figured he looked like a girl doing it.

In the alley, John gripped Brian's arm too hard and brought him back to reality fast. "Would it really be so bad to be seen with me? Did I piss her off? Is she really interested in fucking _Rocket?_ I can't leave here now, _fuck._ Brian, why am I such a fucking idiot and why is she such a _bitch_ sometimes?"

Brian was flabbergasted. He had never seen anything like the change that had just come over John Bender. He looked freaked out and unsure. As Brian tried to look John in the face and put together this picture with the picture of pure, unflappable, threatening and protective cool he had just seen inside, it occurred to him that John Bender was looking to Brian, _Brian_, not for life advice but for girl advice.

This was probably even more unlikely than John's kissing him.

Scratch that.

"Dude. I mean, John. Relax. I don't think—she just—didn't want to be mixed up in that, with those guys from school, probably, I think. That was probably smart. I mean, of her. I mean, if those guys think _I'm_ their territory—you know how they'd react if they thought _Claire Standish_ was down here with _you_. They'd probably think you drugged her or something, you know?"

Nodding slowly, John relaxed a little, but didn't say anything.

So Brian kept talking, working up to a full-on babble. "And the way she was dressed, you know, it's not exactly her usual look, you know? She probably—doesn't want them to see her like that, I think that was—sort of, supposed to be, I don't know—"

"Got it. Right." John looked tense again.

"Right. But it might not be a good idea for her to advertise that, and everyone would be calling her slut for the rest of the year, and probably tonight there'd be a big fight. And Claire probably, I don't know, if she's like me and, you know, cares about you, and clearly she does, like obviously, right? Then she probably thinks you had enough of getting hit today. Probably."

Brian's palms were sweating. This was still John Bender. He might have been a kinder, gentler John Bender than the one he'd met last Saturday, but it was only five days ago and although they seemed to be on their way to being good friends, which was weird, Brian was still conscious of the fact that he was a big, scary, out of control kid and that it would hurt a lot if he hauled off and hit Brian by accident.

He also noted that part of his mind had started in on his probability homework and that it was infecting his word choice in talking to John. He wondered idly if this ever happened to other people and thought that actually, it didn't. There might be reasons, he conceded, that he didn't have a lot of romance in his life.

One of them might be that he sometimes couldn't stop talking at the same time that he could barely get words to come out of his mouth.

John breathed out heavily, trying to rein something in. "She makes me out of my mind insane. She walked out of here with another dude without saying goodbye. That makes me want to pound things like people's faces into this wall. She was probably doing the right thing. And Rocket was doing me a favor. He's an excellent guy. I want to kill him. _Fuck. _Brian. Seriously. You're a smart guy. What. The. Fuck?" He hit the wall softly with his fist again.

Brian had already taken a step back as John was talking about his desire to pound faces into walls, and he stepped back again before answering.

John leaned heavily into the wall, remembering with a kind of ache what else he'd done against that wall that evening, how hot and beautiful and _open_ Claire had looked against the dirty brick. Remembering it had been Claire's first time doing some of that. Remembering how he'd treated her earlier in the day. "Fuucck," he sighed. "I get kinda wrapped up in stuff here, maybe. Did I blow her off?"

Brian shook his head. He meant just to clear it, but John took it as a no. "Ok."

"Well—"

John fixed him with a _look_ and Brian remembered all the things he'd just told himself about how dangerous John Bender could be. But it might be more dangerous if Brian lied now and John ended up messing things up with Claire because of it.

He remembered how Claire had made him promise not to say anything.

He compared John and Claire in his mind and realized that they were both totally and completely confused but that John was scarier, and then he spoke. Rather, he fudged.

"Well, not like she said anything or anything, but I'm not sure how much Claire loved watching you with those other, um, girls."

"Oh _fuck_ me." John sounded disgusted. Brian backed up another foot. "What do I have to _do? _You should _hear _ what I fucking said to her, too, does she not listen to a word I say?"

John Bender was ranting. Brian reflected that this was not good.

"And I didn't fucking touch them, and anyway, they are _friends _of mine. What am I supposed to do, say, fuck off, bitch, I know we made out last week but now I've found a rich girl and think you're trash? They are _not_ trash. I don't respect girls for not putting out, or for putting out. I _don't_ think there are different kinds of girls like that. Claire is just Claire and she hasn't so we don't and I dig her but I'm not going to be an _asshole_ to girls who did and do just because she's—and she wasn't watching anyway. I looked."

Brian noted carefully how crazed John's eyes were. "Mirror."

John swallowed.

"She didn't say anything. And of course, I don't know what you were, um, doing before, back here."

John looked down and didn't say a word.

"But it might be something that Claire isn't as used to, um, doing as you might be. And so it _might_ be, then, to see you right after with people you had obviously done . . . something, with, before, and maybe more, might be— "

Now Brian swallowed hard. "It might be less fun to see than you might think. And then there's the whole thing how everyone saw how you acted when Claire walked in and when you left to go out here with her. Including those girls. Everyone saw that you were with Claire, you made sure of that, and then right after, you were with other girls who were all over you. And other people were watching you and watching Claire while you were with those girls and I bet that for Claire who doesn't miss anything social, ever. . ." Brian trailed off.

"I took them _off_ of me, man," mumbled John sullenly.

Brian nodded, that was true, and he'd been puzzled at Claire's reaction before. "Right. Maybe it just hurts anyway. And maybe it's like with Claire and Rocket—I mean, know she's not really interested in _him,_ right? I mean, let's face it, _you're_ kind of a stretch for someone like Claire, right?"

Brian held his breath, but John nodded, so Brian kept on trying to explain whatever it was that he was trying to explain, which was getting less clear to him by the second. "So, Rocket would be, um, more of a stretch. Like an advanced contortionist yoga stretch. For Claire."

The expression on John's face at that moment was indescribable. "Can we not talk about fucking contortions and stretching and Claire and _Rocket_ at the same time, please, Brian?"

"Absolutely. Good idea. To not. My point is just that, I think probably it just hurts no matter what. Probably especially just after whatever—you were, um, back here. Except I don't really know, because, well—"_Because,_ he continued in his mind,_ I don't know what it's like to be with someone, so I don't know what it's like to watch the person you're with with someone else._

John's hand reached out and was going to clap Brian on the shoulder but Brian flinched and pulled away. John looked startled.

"Listen, dorkus," he sounded offended, "I just took on half the jocks in school and explained to them extremely clearly that no one was going to fuck with you. And you're _scared_ of me? You think I'm just saving you for myself? I just poured my fucking _soul _ out to you."

Brian nodded. "Yeah. Um, you did. And—yeah. You're not completely unscary."

John crooked a smile. "Well _that's _a fucking relief. I wouldn't have thought acting like a total fucking pussy would've put an end to that."

Nervous, Brian laughed. "Wonders never cease, right?"

John started down the alley, then stopped. "Fuck. I gotta get back. All those guys are waiting for me now, they backed me up—can you fucking explain that?"

Just then, Rocket's towering form appeared in the alley. "Big Bri, c'mon," he called out, "Beauty needs her beauty rest."

John clenched his fist, then hung his head, grasping at the back of his neck with his other hand. "Fucking day. I can't—I gotta go back in there. I can't just ditch. You tell her, though, ok? You tell her I gotta play some pool but you tell her that I—"

Brian stood, barely daring to breathe. _Tell her what?_

John Bender dropped his hands in defeat, "Tell her I'll see her tomorrow. Tell her I fucking—"

He raised one hand to his hair, then fisted it again, then brought it back to the wall.

"Tell her thanks for coming by."

* * *

Thank you, as ever, for your continued support of this endless fic. The longest week in history! History, by the way, is an angel, according to some (see below). Reviewers who have im enabled will get a tiny mini Rocket and Claire outtake! Thank you, seriously, to all you patient readers and reviewers. Do it again! I seriously put aside so much work because the strange combination of pleading and patience really got to me.

Strange angel:

Klee painting named 'Angelus Novus' shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.

--Walter Benjamin


	23. Chapter 22

The characters you really care about belong to John Hughes, whose Oscar tribute was fab. But Rocket is his own man.

* * *

Beautiful girl, love your dress  
High school smiles, oh yes  
Beautiful girl, love your dress  
where she is now I can only guess

--Violent Femmes

It all came down to murder.

In the dim light of street lamps and neon signs, Claire had watched as Brian Johnson looked down at the floor of the car and mumbled John Bender's message. At least _Brian _had the decency to look ashamed of it. The car was idling, Claire's hand frozen on the emergency brake, unable to let go. Claire felt her eyes tear and her throat catch, but then, as if it had a will of its own, she felt a smirk creep up her face, an instinct honed by years of hiding in plain sight. Then she felt her shoulders shrug but she still couldn't quite look Brian in the eye, the words hanging heavy and ugly in the air between them.

"Thanks for coming by."

She'd dropped Brian home, smiled and nodded, told him it had been fun and she'd see him at school. She joked with him over being a pool hall hero and reminded him about coming to her house to hang with Bethany and Allison. "Lady's man," she'd teased she pulled out of the driveway.

But that was all background noise. The truth was, that ever since she'd heard those words, those goodbye words sent to _her_ from _him,_ after _that day, _it had all added up to one thing.

Claire Standish wanted to commit murder.

First, of course, she had to make sure that her intended victim was ok and not sporting any fresh bruises, because the very real possibility that he might _not_ be ok at any given time made her feel physically ill.

But for sure, the second she found out he was fine, she was going to _kill_ John Bender.

It was so hard for her to collect herself. It was never this hard.

It had been impossible in the kitchen at home as she slammed around breakfast things, granola and yogurt flying everywhere, none of it eaten in the end.

It continued to be hard in the car on the way to school—in fact, it got harder because it was one of those mornings when every DJ in the world was conspiring against her so that every stupid song on every stupid radio station was mocking Claire and her feelings and her life with a catchy chorus and a bridge.

Don't do me like that.

How long has this been going?

Cold as ice.

Tainted love.

And then . . . the last straw.

_You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far cause you know it don't matter anyway. . . _

Evil DJs. Claire glared at the radio and lunged angrily at a red light as if the brakes were something that needed punishing.

That's right. Too far. Too far in an alley. Even farther in her mind, farther still in her dreams when she wasn't there to stop it.

_You can rely on the old man's money,_

Thanks for coming by.

_you can rely on the old man's money . . ._

Yeah, well, everyone should have something they can rely on. Hall and Oates kept whining in the background and she kept listening, apparently going for a new record of pop music masochism.

So she had borrowed the car again. Why not drive to school? So she had wanted to make the point that she didn't need a car, not from her parents, not from their stupid games that they played with her life like it was a gameboard, their money and the things it bought so many little pieces to move around towards "Go."

Claire had wanted to make the point that she was above that, that she was a person with feelings and resources of her own.

But whatever. She didn't need to make any point to her stupid parents. Her mother was on a cruise to get away from it all, anyway. All that lounging around the house drinking, Claire figured, could really take its toll on a person.

Just as well she was gone. Probably John would like to flirt with her mother while tenderly removing _her_ mouth from his body, too.

Everyone had their hobbies.

_It's a bitch, girl . . . _

"That's right," muttered Claire, "And so am I." She pulled into the parking lot, tires squealing, and parked diagonally, taking up two spaces. Why not? Why even try to _not _act like a spoiled bitch if people were just going to thank her for stopping by afterwards, anyway?

Her murderous expression faltered when she thought how she'd turned and run last night. Maybe John was just mad she'd done that. Maybe he'd been hurt.

Or maybe he was just trying to show her who was boss, that just because she could make him drop everything and take her out to an alley and stutter and moan and growl and come in his pants didn't mean he was . . . whatever they called it. Whipped, whatever _that_ meant. Maybe he was just teaching her a lesson.

Well, she didn't care. Two could play at that game. In fact, John would find that Claire Standish was _full_ of lessons.

Ok, so maybe he already had found that out. But this time, she didn't mean the cashmere kind.

This time, Claire didn't care who hit him or how hard his life was or what was going on in that pool hall, except for the fact that she _did_ care about all that stuff so much that it hurt, but that was not the point. She shouldn't care, not when someone was going to use Brian friggin' Johnson to pass her a message like "thanks for stopping by" after—_that_ in the alley, when John knew, he _knew _she was not that kind of a girl and it was her first time for _any_ of this and . . . she was vulnerable and she had to put an _end_ to that.

Not to John, except by killing him which she fully intended to do, repeatedly if possible. And, really, not that she would even put an end to John and her—because the thought of that made her physically ill as well.

No. Claire would just put an end to the vulnerability part. She could _not_ let him get under her skin like that. She would let him get under her skirt before she would let him under her skin like that, ever, ever again. She would never be opened like that, like she had been in that alley. She would just have to find a way of separating her skin from her feelings like other people did. Like John did.

Like John did, at least she hoped, when those girls touched him and he moved their hands and mouths from his body like he regretted having to do it. Like he regretted not being able to let those mouths and hands stay on him. Like he might let them stay on him later, after Claire was gone back to daddy's house after _stopping by _and John was safe back in his world and Claire wasn't looking.

Even if it was just his skin they were touching.

Murder.

As soon as she was sure he was all right, she was going to murder John Bender fifty times. Then she was going to make out with him like crazy and not care and then murder John Bender all over again.

As soon as she finished dealing the first dickface on her list. And with that thought, Claire Standish made her way to the Principal's office.

*****

When John Bender woke up on his friend Rocket's couch, his head was pounding from the whiskeys Rocket seriously probably shouldn't have let him drink, given that it was a school night and all but it wasn't like he was John's parent or some shit.

Rocket had probably been trying to make up for the ass-kicking lecture he'd been handing down about Claire and girls and whatever the hell else, John didn't know why everyone and their fucking uncle seemed to feel like they had to tell John everything he was doing wrong in that department. If he was so fucking horrible, Claire Standish wouldn't have come down to his pool hall in no bra to make out with him, would she? And that was before she even knew he could make her come in her jeans.

So everything was clearly fine, better than fine, but Rocket kept going on about it anyway.

"Yeah, well when you're turning down other chicks in front of your girlfriend, you don't make it look like you're telling them to check back in an hour when the bitch is gone, you get me, kid?" Rocket had sounded really kind of pissed, which John hadn't quite understood because what the hell was Claire to him, anyway? Nothing, right? No way Claire would have anything going on with a guy like Rocket, right?

John scowled at the thought in spite of himself. "Aw, c'mon Rocket. What am I supposed to do, slap 'em down? She's not really my girlfriend, I don't _do_ that and—I turned down a free blowjob right there! What's it take?"

Rocket had shot him a look that would definitely have killed if looks could pack any heat but then just as fast he was shaking, doubled over from laughing. "Sorry, John," he snorted, "I didn't realize you normally paid for that shit."

"_Fuck_ you," drawled John good-humoredly.

"Listen, take a word of advice from old Rocket. That might seem like a very excellent proof of your devotion, how you turned down a free blowjob and all, but you might not want to mention that to Claire."

"Really?" John seemed to consider a moment. "Huh. Girls are weird." He tried very hard to keep a straight face, but failed at the last minute and sat there on Rocket's sofa, shoulders shaking. "C'mon, Claire baby, any one of those girls'll blow me in a second, but here I stand, _talking_ to you—you really think that wouldn't work for me?"

Rocket shook his head. "I don't know why I'm trying to talk you out of it. Tell you what, if you try that shit, do it at the pool hall so I can watch. Hell, I can sell tickets!"

They both laughed for a while.

"I don't know, maybe you should get her chocolates or something instead."

"What, you think she'd want an empty gesture instead of a real honest to God _sacrifice?" _John stared at his friend in mock horror and disbelief, and they laughed for a while longer. John poured himself a shot from the whiskey on the table and knocked it back.

Then Rocket's face darkened. "But seriously, asswipe, that girl's a sweetheart and if you're not serious about her, you probably shouldn't, you know, hang around. I kinda thought you were, from the way you looked at her like the sun rises and sets out of her ass or some shit, but if she's just another piece to you, you gotta let her go."

John poured himself another whiskey and scowled some more. They sat a minute in silence. "Why you so worked up about Claire anyway?" John grumbled. "You think when she's done with me she'll come knockin' at _your _door?"

Rocket hid a smile and stretched his large frame. "What makes you think she didn't already come knockin' for some Rockin'? She left with _me,_ remember?"

The scowl on John's face deepened. "She just didn't wanna be seen with me in front of those pricks from school. Speaking of people who aren't fucking serious about other people, by the way, you might wanna include her."

Seeming to consider this possibility, Rocket nodded slowly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you're just a fucking game to her."

"I'm not a fucking game to her, all right?" John was muttering, barely audible, and his face was in his hands.

"No, man, maybe you are. I mean, _you're_ not serious, maybe she's not either. Rocket was reading the whole scene wrong. Here I was, thinking, I wouldn't scam on your girl just cause she was all pressed up against me and trembling but—"

He glanced at John to gauge his reaction. John's head was down, but his arms were crossed and his entire body looked rigid. Rocket hid another smile and kept talking. "But hell, I mean, if she's not your girlfriend—maybe I could be her next game—she'll be eighteen one of these days, right? And shit, man, have you seen the way those goddamn lips of hers get around the word pussy?"

"What the _fuck_ was she doing saying the word _pussy _to _you?_"

Rocket didn't meet John's eye, knowing if he did he'd surely lose it. "C'mon, man, I'm not the kiss and tell kind, but seriously—I mean, those lips are big enough on their own, but the way they just sort of plump up around the word "pussy"—guy can't help but think how they'd plump up around something else—" But Rocket's words were cut off by John Bender's hand over his mouth.

Bender's other hand was tight wrapped around the older man's t-shirt and the boy's face was white, his voice shaking.

"So help me, Rocket, she's a fucking virgin and if you laid one hand on her while she was dressed like that and feeling all vulnerable and out of her element and shit, I swear I don't care how big you are, I will fucking _end_ you!"

The smile that had been threatening to break all over Rocket's face finally let loose. He removed John's hand from his mouth as easily as if it had been a slip of paper. "Yeah, you will, punk. You and your goddamn greaser army. Except then you'll be out of that fucking after school job I was gonna give you at the garage, and then how the hell are you going to buy chocolate and stuff for your not-girlfriend?"

Chuckling, Rocket let his hand sweep away John's hair, exposing his ear. "Very nice fucking diamond, by the way." And he swatted his stunned-looking friend in the head and shoved him back onto the beat-up sofa. "I'm telling you, kid, you act however you want at school but if you show up to work with your head that far up your ass, you're gonna trip over stuff and mess up every car in the place. Not serious about her, my glorious fat buttocks!"

He raised his thick eyebrows at John like John was some kind of naughty schoolboy, which was fitting, because John suddenly felt like a naughty schoolboy, and he wasn't sure why.

"I never said I wasn't fucking serious," he mumbled, "I said _she_—whatever. We're fine, Rocket. Claire and I are just fine. I just gotta—sometimes play it a little cool, you know? Girl like that gets bored with getting everything she wants. Soon as she knows how—whatever, she'd drop my ass if she knew the whole deal, whatever she _thinks_ she wants. It's—"

"So what—one minute you're too cool to have a girlfriend, next you're whining that it might not be forever?" Rocket's laugh crinkles around his eyes looked suddenly deeper.

"Fuck off," grunted John miserably.

"Sun really does rise and set out of her ass, then, doesn't it?"

Silence.

"Yeah, well, you're probably right, don't let her know _that_. Girls hate that shit, right, when you're all into them and don't want anyone else." Rocket snorted again. The sound, thought John, would stop a truck.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head back, clearly shifting gears. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, blew a few smoke rings. "Not that I don't love this girly sleepover bonding thing we've got going, but am I really coming to work for you?"

"Can I count on Claire coming around if I say yes?"

And John had flipped him off and poured another shot. "Claire and I are cool," he'd said, confidently, letting the whiskey numb his mouth as he let her tongue run over his lips again in his mind. His eyes closed. "Shit, man, I'm beat. 'K if I crash here?"

"Can you get your head out of your ass long enough to lie down? Then sure. Any time, kid."

John had mumbled his thanks as Rocket sat quietly. Settling into the lumpy sofa, John kept his eyes closed and focused on his accomplishments for the day. So he'd gotten clocked in the morning and then treated Claire like shit for most of the day. That had sort of sucked. He'd made it up to her by teaching her bitch 'friend' a lesson and Cherry had forgiven him, a fact evidenced by her showing up looking like John Bender's personal sex fantasy and then kind of . . . being it. He'd for sure be getting off on _that_ mental image for quite some years. To round out the day, he'd made his geek friend something of a hero in his pool hall, given Claire an orgasm in an alley, and said no to a blow job. He'd made killer shots all night, cleaned the tables with the douchebags from school, and now it even looked like he had a job.

Apparently, he even had someone to put a blanket over him, and now he was feeling really fucking warm.

Rocket was an excellent guy, for all he was clearly getting a few laughs out of yanking John's chain. That didn't mean he understood everything about the John and Claire show. Brian either. Claire had been in that alley with him and Claire had heard what he'd said, it had made her come, what he'd said to her. That was a _sure_ sign she'd been listening.

She wasn't going to forget that just because a few other girls liked John too.

John sighed at the memory of Claire framed by the neon of his pool hall in her hot as hell clothes, every eye in the place on her. John would put money on it. Everything was ok with her.

****

Everything was fucked. Except it wasn't. It was fine. But John couldn't shake the thought. He _knew_ something was off.

It was just after third period and John was leaning against some lockers watching Claire Standish be popular. She was wearing pink and laughing and smiling with her friends as they did rounds to each others' lockers, whispering and pretending like they didn't know how many guys were watching them.

In his mind, John was going over every single thing she'd done all day, including pulling him into a closet and kissing him senseless for a minute before shoving him right back out again without saying a word.

Watermelon lip gloss.

There was nothing wrong with _that, _but there _had_ been something wrong with the whole scene, as hot as it had been, but for the life of him he couldn't put his finger on it.

She wasn't wearing any cashmere at all. Her shirt was cotton and had ruffles. It was scratchy like it had starch in it or something.

He shook his head. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe the combination of Rocket's lectures and the joint he'd smoked on the way to school was just getting the better of him.

It's not like Claire was shy about telling him off about shit. When she'd been pissed off yesterday, she'd _acted_ pissed off.

Just then, though, she walked right by him. But instead of walking right by him, she'd just turned and smiled at him like it was the easiest thing in the world. "Hey, Bender," she'd said, waving. Like it had been nothing. Nothing at all.

Like he hadn't been the guy making her come in the alley at all. Like he wasn't the only guy to do that. Just exactly like nothing between them was any big deal at all.

"When's the funeral?" Andy Clark's voice at his elbow caught John off guard and he jumped.

"Whoa," Clark punched him lightly in the arm. "What's eating you?"

"Claire's blowing me off," said John between clenched teeth.

Andy's eyes widened in surprise but John missed it, his eyes being glued to Claire as she and her friends walked up to a group of guys and started talking. Some of the same kids had been at the pool hall last night and it burned John to the core that they didn't know their popular princess was with _him._

Shaking his head, Andy leaned up against the locker next to John, nudging him slightly. "She just smiled and said hi to you in the middle of the hall, what are you talking about? I'd say that's progress from our girl."

John was surly. "Yeah, that's what it looked like, but underneath, she was really blowing me off."

"What do you mean?"

"Right after that she smiled and said hi to like three of those other guys. Right in front of me. Like I wasn't even here."

Andy gazed at Claire. She wasn't even really flirting with anyone—she just looked happy and confident—light-hearted, even. "John, she's a popular girl. You care about her saying hi now?"

"She knows what she's doing," John said darkly.

"So you're jealous."

"Fuck no." John shook his head back, finally prying his eyes away from Claire and heading down the hall. "I just don't see why she has to be such a bitch."

"By smiling and saying hi to you," said Andy sarcastically, turning in John's direction.

"Fuck off," muttered John, as he ducked into class.

Laughing to himself, Andy turned and saw Allison waving shyly at him down the hall. He blew her a kiss and sprinted to class as the bell rang.

***

In Dick Vernon's office Claire had started completely cool and collected. With a side of sweet. And cold, hard steel, she had thought, as the secretary waved her in.

He'd sat there and tried, again, to cajole her, to suggest that he understood what a creep John Bender was and how much he hoped she knew he would do anything in his power to keep him away. From her.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon," she'd said shyly, "I don't think you understand. You see, you did so much for us that day. I really changed—we all did. John isn't as isolated as he used to be, he's made friends with me and Andy and—you know, we just all really care about each other. And we have you to thank for it." And she smiled her sweetest, most open smile. "You really taught us such a good lesson."

"What's your game, Standish?" He'd snapped out, turning on a dime.

Claire noticed that his suit was a little shiny, his tie was too wide and his hair looked like it wanted to be a wig when it grew up. She stifled a smile.

"Game?" She asked innocently, batting her eyelashes just a little too hard.

"You don't fool me, Standish. I've seen your kind sashay in and out of here for years, thinking you're God's gift and you've got everyone fooled. Well, you don't fool me."

"Gosh, Mr. Vernon, I'd never dream of it, I mean—how would I even think that's possible? I—we—we don't want to try to fool you." Claire's eyes were wide. "That's why we're all telling you that we _all_ contributed to the mess in the library. We knew you'd figure it out, and then we'd be in more trouble if you found out that we'd let John take all our punishment for us." Claire swallowed hard. "I just wasn't as brave as the others. It took me longer to come forward."

Claire looked down, suddenly not acting any more. It was true. She wasn't as brave as the others, although not for the reason she was implying. Even now, now as she was working so hard at being brave in one direction, another part of her was running away. She sighed. She couldn't be brave all the time. Standing up to her principal was one thing. Standing up to her feelings for John Bender only to have them rubbed in the dirt when he was angry or careless—she couldn't do that again right now.

"Maybe later," she'd mumbled without realizing. She'd been watching her calfskin-booted toe trace a small circuit on the worn indoor-outdoor carpeting. Principal Vernon had been talking to her and she hadn't even noticed. He didn't sound to pleased with her lack of attention.

"Maybe later? Maybe _later, _you'll show up for community service? Let me tell you something, young lady, you'll show up when I tell you. And if you think I'm putting the five of you in Saturday detention again, you're dumber than you look. Hell, you're dumber than that punk_ John_ _Bender_ looks."

Nodding in silent acceptance of her punishment of not getting to be cooped up in the library all day Saturday, Claire didn't trust her voice to speak. He really was an idiot. A vicious idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

"You'll be 'volunteering' at the Boy's Club next Tuesday after school and the Tuesday after that. And if that doesn't give you your fill of delinquents and scumbags, we'll see if we can't make it a permanent commitment."

"Yes, sir," whispered Claire.

Vernon was warming to his material a little too much. "You know, Standish, there's just one thing I wish. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when your father has to hear that his perfect princess is not only all buddy-buddy with the school criminal, but has to go get her hands dirty making sandwiches for a whole barn full of junior criminals next week. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation."

"That would be pretty—um, great," said Claire mildly, imagining her father's precision with a fly swatter.

"You know what else I'd like to be around for?" The principal's voice was suddenly softer and harder at the same time.

Claire shook her head mutely. She was sure she didn't want to know the answer.

"I'd like to be around for the moment you figure out that a guy like John Bender could only ever be toying with a nice girl like you. That scum like that just wants to pick you up and get you a little dirty before dropping you again—just to prove he can. I'd like to see that."

Claire took a deep breath and prayed that he could not see the sudden tears swimming in her eyes. "I don't—" she faltered. Right there, just like that, Dick Vernon had given voice to her very worst fears. "I don't think that's your business," she whispered, shaken.

"Oh, but Claire, I like to watch . . ."

Her eyes widening to the point it actually hurt, Claire swore she could _hear_ the slimy smile oozing around his face. She turned her face up to his, her expression frozen in a kind of horror.

"Watch out for my students, of course, you're all so precious to me," Vernon sneered, pushing back in his desk chair.

Unable to answer to save her life, Claire nervously fingered something in her blazer pocket. "I need to—you know, class," she finally mumbled.

Dick Vernon sighed. Claire reflected on how much he seemed to match the horrid browns of his office paneling. "You can go, Miss Standish. Let's see if we can't get you back on track, what do you say?"

"Sounds like a plan, Mr. Vernon," she said quietly, and she turned to go.

It was just afterwards that Claire Standish had run into John Bender and pulled him into a closet, desperate to own him and claim him and push him away with her mouth and hands, all at the same time. She didn't speak and as her candy-slicked lips moved on his and she felt him taste her lip gloss, she swore to herself that his hands rubbing her hip and waist beneath her blouse were touching nothing deeper than skin. She sent him off with a smile and a smack on the ass, not once meeting his eyes and wondering if anything in him knew or cared enough to sense the difference.

***

John Bender was pretty pissed off that he was turning back into a girl again, but the evidence was pretty fucking incontrovertible. He was fingering Claire's goddamn scarf every five minutes, putting it up to his face and letting it run over his cheek and chin and lips and then at one point he smelled it, sniffed right up into it in the middle of goddamn algebra and fuck if Debbie Kimball didn't give him one hell of a look.

He had to watch his step.

And the thing of it was that he didn't even want the goddamn scarf, except that he did because he loved it and she'd gotten it, she'd _stolen_ it for _him._ But he didn't want the goddamn scarf because he wanted _her_ all soft and warm and wrapped around his neck. She was softer than the goddamn cashmere.

But today she wasn't.

He still didn't know how exactly he was getting this impression because she looked happy enough and she smiled at him more than once and her mouth had felt fantastic on his mouth and in spite of all that he was getting more and more miserable by the second because something was missing and he didn't even know what it was but he missed it and he wanted it back.

He wanted it back so badly _he'd_ even gone up to _her_ in the hall when she was talking to Allison and that Frenchy girl Bethany who Claire always seemed to be with. He'd said something mildly insulting to Allison, who'd given it back with interest and slammed into him the way she did, and he'd slammed back, all the while not really paying attention because he just wanted to catch Claire's eye and get a glimpse of that softness that was _his _just for a split second, but he couldn't find it although she seemed if anything friendlier than usual, and then it was time for class.

Again.

"Thanks for stopping by," she'd called out, and although John couldn't be quite sure, he thought there was something _really_ off about that, although she'd sounded perfectly nice an even-toned.

He didn't _want_ nice and even-toned from Claire.

And then he'd seen her with those fucking guys from the pool hall again, laughing _again_ and one of them had his hand on her arm and his hair looked all perfect and blow-dried just like Claire's and then he bent over and whispered in to Claire's ear. And then the asshole had the balls to look at John.

At that minute John Bender wished more than anything on earth that Claire had not hightailed it out of that pool hall last night, but had stayed to see John whip those dudes' smarmy asses while she stood watching. He wanted _them_ to see how she could look at him, at John Burnout Bender, like he was the greatest fucking thing since sliced bread, like she was _proud_ to be with him. Because that was how she'd looked at him last night. He'd _seen_ it.

Instead, she glanced casually over toward him, like he barely registered with her. She shrugged.

Then she said, loudly, to blow-dried boy who'd had his nose in her hair, "Oh, c'mon, don't be such a baby. It's not like you can't afford it, right? You play with a burnout, you can't be surprised you get burned, right?"

Hell.

It really seemed to John like that last part might have been something he was supposed to overhear.

Hell. How the fuck did people do this shit?

Whatever. It was time for the big guns, which thankfully he was packing because like a goddamn girl already this morning he'd caved to Rocket's voice in his head and bought a stupid box of chocolates. Just in case. And now, girl that he was, he was freaked out enough to use it. Because Claire was being nice to him and that was _all._

It was easy enough to threaten a freshman into delivering the box to Claire at lunch without spilling a word of where it came from. And it was easy enough, since John knew when and where it was coming from, to make sure he was positioned just right in the lunchroom so he could watch without seeming to, and when Vicky Mann had gotten in the way of his line of sight, trying to sit on his lap, he'd just swatted her down so fast even Claire couldn't have complained.

"I'm just not in the mood, Vicky," he'd growled, and she'd gotten the hint pretty fast. Well, he guessed, it wasn't a hint, it was just telling her plain and simple, which he realized was maybe a different kind of strategy from the one he'd been using last night, but he couldn't think about that right now.

He couldn't think about it because all he wanted was to see was the soft, pretty look on Claire's face when she got her chocolates, the special, private look on her face that would say she knew, and it was him and her, chocolate covered cherries like their lips together and hopefully in the future less clothes and maybe some Hershey's syrup although that might be getting a little ahead of himself. Right now, in the lunchroom, in front of all those douchebags who thought John Bender wasn't good enough to win their money, Claire Standish would open would the box of chocolates he'd _bought_ with that goddamn money that he'd won after she'd left because she was ashamed to be seen with him, and Claire Standish would look at those chocolates and melt like ice cream and John and everyone else would watch it happen.

Sure enough, the scrawny kid John had picked as being impossibly unattractive, just to be on the safe side, came up to Claire's table and put the white box tied with the red ribbon in front of her. For a second Claire froze—just froze, not good or bad that he could see, just like someone had put her on pause or some shit. And then, it was like the tape started up again. She smiled like any girl would if someone had just anonymously sent her chocolates, which John had to admit he'd never seen happen before so he had fuck all to base that assumption on but whatever, he was sure it looked like that. She blushed a little and covered her mouth with her hand, and then she went around asking some of the asswipes at her table if they'd sent it, which they so obviously fucking hadn't that it made John want to punch things.

And _then_ she glanced around the lunchroom, and while she was doing that, she _finally _looked at John, not too long or to obvious, and she _did_ smile, but she was smiling at everyone just like she had been all day long. There wasn't anything special about _his_ smile. Then she opened the box and picked up a piece of candy and took a bite out of it, he could see the cherry juice run down over her lip and one of those _cocksuckers_ who sat with her, whose money was now burning a hole in John's pocket, reached out _his_ fucking hand towards Claire's lip, like to wipe off _John's _cherry juice off of _John's _Cherry.

Murder.

John Bender wanted to commit murder.

Claire swatted the guy's hand away playfully, but not in any way that said how dare you touch what is rightfully John's and John's alone, but more with a go-on-with-you, you big-bad-boy vibe that John didn't like at _all._ She finished her piece of candy, licking the chocolate and syrup off her fingers and _then_ she glanced at John with her finger still in her mouth and a look that was much more fucking hopeful because he remembered what it was like to have Cherry lick syrup off _his_ fingers and he would put money on it that she was thinking the same fucking thing. Which of course went straight to John's groin and then all kinds of things were looking up.

But then she had to go and put one of John Bender's hard-earned chocolate covered cherries in that piss-poor poolplaying cocksucker's mouth and suddenly nothing was looking up at all.

John was out of there so fast.

Except that he wasn't, because like the pathetic idiot he had apparently turned into overnight, instead of stalking out of the cafeteria altogether, he stalked to the goddamn garbage bins like it was _their place_ or something, which was nauseating, and hoped Claire would at least notice him enough to fucking meet him there. And then he had to endure it while his heart leapt in his chest as she got up and then when it sank down to somewhere below his stomach because she went over to talk to Andy and Allison and Brian and Kenny and offer _them_ some chocolates too.

Like this was something that should upset him. He was losing his goddamn mind over this chick _again._ He tried to tell himself that she was just a rich girl with a scratchy shirt and that her haircut was stupid and made her look like a mushroom when it was all overstyled and sprayed like it was today.

Except that didn't make him feel much better because it made him realize he looked at her enough to tell how much fucking time and hairspray she put into her hair every day.

God help him.

And then she was before him, throwing away some little brown wrappers from her chocolate box and offering him a chocolate, too. Well, woop, de fucking doo. "Look, Bender, look what someone was sweet enough to send me," she said, smiling and holding the box out to him, exactly like she'd held it out to every other asshole in the school.

"Yeah, that's great. Since when did Miss Prom Queen get so good at sharing?" he snapped, burning into her with his eyes.

She didn't even flinch, just raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, and said smoothly and quietly, "Well, John, I guess if whoever sent them didn't want me sharing, he should have said something."

"I thought you didn't _like_ sharing. I thought you didn't _want_ to fucking share," he growled.

And despite all his growling and staring, her face still looked as placid as fuck.

"Oh, you know—I'm having all kinds of new experiences this week." John felt _his_ cheeks burn, his head and pants immediately back in that alley last night, but then he looked at Claire's cheeks and they—didn't change color at all. She just went right on talking, like she was talking about the weather or something. "Things can change so fast, I never realized." She smiled again, looking right into his eyes, and shrugged. "So I guess I can learn to share too—never too late, right? But I figured you'd be happy—and after all, it's a it's a big box. Which was sweet, thank you," she whispered, "and who knows," she said in a louder voice, her public flirting voice that was the same for all males, "maybe you'll change your mind and want a chocolate covered cherry later." She caught her friend Bethany's eye and ran over to her, first shoving John playfully in the arm.

He watched as Bethany glanced over his way and muttered something to Claire. Claire just laughed and said loudly, "Who, Bender? No, he's harmless. Well—maybe not." She rolled her eyes. "But he's harmless to _me._" And she waved. "We're all detention buddies, I told you. Me, Andy, Brian, Allison—hardened criminals."

John just stared, then nodded slowly, peaking loud enough for them both to hear. "That's right. Once you've been with someone on the inside, it's a bond that can't be broken."

"Wow," said Bethany, a little uncertain, "I think I might try to keep out of trouble anyway."

"You do that," said John impassively.

"C'mon, Beth," said Claire, tugging at her friend, "Let's leave Prince Charming alone."

John watched her ass for a minute as it walked away from him with the rest of her, then ran his hand through his hair, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. _Harmless. Fuck me _RAW _I'm fucking harmless._

A couple of kids came up to him and asked if he wanted to go out to the bleachers to get high and he just shook his head. They shrugged and took off. John realized he hadn't even registered who the fuck they were. He made his way to the door in a daze.

Which was why he didn't notice Andy and Allison walking on either side of him for who the hell knew how long.

"Who's the victim?" Allison asked, deadpanning.

"Claire," said John through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, I saw her talking to you and smiling at you in public again, that must really piss you off," nodded Andy sympathetically.

"She has no shame, that Claire," agreed Allison.

"Fuck off." John started walking faster, but Andy and Allison just walked right along with him. "She shared her fucking chocolates. What the fuck is that?"

Andy said, "Chocolate covered cherries all around?" while Allison said "I guess you'll have to kill the bitch," at exactly the same time. Andy stared at Allison and then cracked up. "You're crazy, you know that?"

"That's the rumor," nodded Allison, poker-faced.

The three had stopped and started leaning against a locker. Andy and Allison quickly saw they had stopped because the particular locker offered a fine view of Bethany's locker, where Claire now was. With Bethany.

The two girls were looking at some kind of catalogue together, pointing at items and giggling, looking in the back for something, checking another picture. Claire's eyes widened as she pointed at a picture and she looked excited, jumping up an down a little.

John thought it looked fucking adorable and immediately hated himself for thinking that and then immediately hated himself for _that,_ because actually, the girl hadn't been anything but nice to him all day. Really nice.

Nice.

Even a little naughty.

But mostly nice.

And he was harmless.

Fuck this.

He was about to turn away when Bethany started hitting Claire with the rolled up catalogue. "That is _too much_, Claire Standish. Even for you. That is just _too much._ I cannot get behind this. That is just too much money. It's obscene."

Claire just laughed and started singing, snatching the catalogue back and using it as a pretend microphone. "What can I say?_ She's a rich girl, and she's gone too far cause she knows it don't matter anyway . . ."_

John's heart clenched in his chest. What did she mean gone too far? What did she mean it didn't matter? It fucking mattered. It mattered to her. It mattered to _him._

It was not a secret message to him, it was a fucking pop song_,_ and he was out of his goddamn mind.

"Hall and fucking Oates?" he muttered.

"My God, John," Allison had him by his coat collar, she was staring deep into his eyes. "She has to be stopped."

And then suddenly she and Andy were holding their sides laughing and John slammed his fist into a locker and then he was gone.

****

It was just after last period and Claire was hanging around, waiting for activities to start. She and Perce were laughing at the fact that the school needed to get him a tutor so he could keep playing tennis, so that actually the "punishment" for Brian Johnson was just a way for the school to save some money.

Claire reflected on how completely beautiful Perce was, with his perfect, full, sculpted lips, his chiseled chin and cheekbones, his glossy hair, his fashionable, costly, well-fitted clothes. She reflected how she didn't respond to any of this in the slightest.

Whereas just the passing thought of John Bender's worn t-shirt and flannel made her entire body tingle. But today she was doing a good job of keeping things in check. For a split second, she'd almost lost it over the chocolates, but in the end, she'd kept to her plan. Skin deep. Even keel.

The time she'd really lost it was there in Vernon's office. That sick, sinking feeling in her stomach when he'd said _exactly_ the words that kept her up at night—well, what kept her up at night in addition the extensive John Bender fantasies that also demanded her time.

But what Vernon said, it was exactly what she had needed to keep her firm on track even in the face of chocolates and John's strange reaction to her at lunch.

Vernon had reminded her, though, as if she needed it—that actually, she _had_ no commitment from John, no commitment that he _wouldn't_ just pick up with those girls—whichever girls, any girls. All she had was a hypothetical sloth. And, well, now she had a box of chocolates—and her first orgasm—but he had diamonds and cashmere and while she didn't want those things from him—he'd never given her anything that would _last._ He'd only given her things that were delicious for a minute, and then they were gone.

Maybe he was trying to tell her something.

Vernon had reminded her that it had been just short of a week and however close she felt to John Bender sometimes, she didn't really know him. And what she _had_ seen, over and over again, was a volatile, dangerous boy who wasn't always in control of himself. And who, when he _was_ in control of himself, could be even scarier. And who, by his own admission, wasn't sure what he wanted, or if he could even allow himself to have it if he figured it out.

If she was going to keep this up, it had to go slower. She had kept hurling herself forward, thinking, somewhere, in the back of her mind, that if she just put herself out there enough, if she were just brave enough, that John would meet her there.

Instead, she'd been rushing, pushing. Pushing a boy who was out of control to begin with. Even John Bender knew this, he'd tried to tell her. He had to get himself together, had to put some things in order, and she had to give him some space to do it. Instead, Claire had been shoving herself into his life, into his comfort zone, and pushed and demanded.

And _she'd_ gotten opened. _She'd_ gotten pushed. _She'd_ gotten out of control.

She _had_ to slow this down.

And she could. She could do this. She could keep John satisfied—well, as satisfied as he could get with her, because slowing down meant slowing down in _all_ respects, unless she could learn to give a hand job or something—and she could be nice to him, and friendly, and work behind the scenes to help him. He wouldn't have to know anything had changed. It wouldn't, really, have changed. It was just a matter of shoving her own too strong, too riotous feelings down under her skin where he could not reach them. Where his hot and cold wouldn't hurt.

She didn't even have to murder him. Everything was fine.

And as Claire Standish thought all this, she kept chatting amicably with Perce. He seemed to even like Brian, whom he'd met at lunch today, which she was happy for.

"Poor Brian," sighed Claire, "but actually, he probably wins. He'll get to talk about physics and someone will have to listen." Her mind wandered to the night before, to the image of all those grubby guys, Rocket included, looking to Brian and hanging on his every word.

Her heart warmed a little at the thought of her big-hearted, big-chested, big-bellied new friend, how he'd teased her and seen through her and called her bluff. She blushed slightly at the memory. She wouldn't have thought it possible that she could have even the tiniest crush on someone that ugly—but she was afraid it might be true. It was lucky she didn't have to see him too much, because Claire was somehow sure she'd _never _be able to hide a single thing from _him_.

"So what else is physics boy into?" asked Perce. Claire shook herself back into the here and now, surprised at Perce's interest.

"Math?" She asked, laughing some more. Then she realized that she really had no idea what Brian was really into besides school. And then she realized that her surprise should have had more to do with the fact that Perce, who'd met Brian once, seemed to have more human interest in her friend than _she_ did.

"I think he might like foreign films," she mumbled, slightly ashamed. She would definitely find out more about Brian tonight. She _did_ care. She really did. She'd just been . . . distracted lately.

She was too distracted at the moment to notice Perce picking a piece of lint off her lapel, because her number one distraction was at that moment barreling down the hall toward her. And he did not look pleased. He did not look harmless.

He looked like sex personified if sex could get very, very pissed off.

Butterflies, bees, and all manner of other woodland creatures were suddenly rioting beneath Claire's skin. Oh dear. Oh, shit. So much for keeping things on an even keel.

She was going to pass out because she could not breathe.

John stopped in front of her but he was looking at Perce.

"Hi, John," said Claire, her heart pounding in her throat. "Do you, um, need something?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do. But first, where are your manners? Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" He raised an eyebrow at Perce, whose gaze he had never dropped. Perce made as if to put a protective hand on Claire's arm, but Claire edged away.

She swallowed and licked her lips. Claire was pretty sure this might be a version of that out of control boy she'd been worrying about just moments before.

Whoever he was, he was killer hot.

She liked her lips again. "Sure. Of course. John Bender, this is Percy Dale. Perce, this is John Bender. I got to know him in detention. With Brian—um, Perce was just telling me that Brian's his new physics tutor."

"Is that so. What a lucky guy. So, Claire, tell me, is this Percy—is this your new fella? Your _beau?_"

Claire recalled earlier how she had been planning to commit murder and she looked at John's face and realized that actually, _that_ was what the intent to murder looked like when it wasn't just hyperbole.

Percy, however, seemed astonishingly oblivious to that fact. He took Claire's hand in his. "I'm working on it," he said confidently. Claire felt her heart beat ten times faster as she removed her hand from Perce's and gave it a little shake. That was so not a good thing for Perce to have done.

What a total idiot he must be. Or suicidal.

John just nodded, smiling slightly. His eyes looked so dangerous, Claire thought she might just come in her—whoa. She was so much more messed up than she realized.

"So," Bender said, voice a crazy mix of soft and fury and harsh and scary as hell at the same time. "Does she, uh, wake you up before you go-go?"

"Very funny, John," said Claire quickly, suppressing a giggle. Because it was. In a dangerous, crazy way. He sounded calm. He wasn't calm. _God, _was that sexy.

"Yeah, he's a real riot," grumbled Perce. "You're friends with this asshole, Claire?"

Claire nodded, putting everything she had in her that was not a small animal writhing in mating frenzy into controlling her voice and producing a light tone. "Once you're with someone on the inside, it's a bond that can't be broken."

"That's right, you're a real fuckin' rebel, Standish," deadpanned John, "but I'm here about something else."

"Okay," said Claire, cautiously, curious but terrified to find out what was going on. John was really angry that she'd shared those chocolates, maybe. But there was something else.

His stare was so intense she was trembling from it. But his tone was that calm-not calm voice that made her—well, wet. And scared. "Yeah, well, you remember that problem from the other day, the one I couldn't come up with an answer for, even though you keep bugging me about it?"

Now it wasn't just wet and scared, though. There was a rushing in Claire's ears. She did know. She knew exactly.

_How many guys do you want to imagine, like, feeling up my sweaters or finding out I like it with a little bit of a bite_

Not only her heart but all her internal organs were now in her throat, probably crowded out by all the animal life taking over every single inch of the inside of her body.

"Yeah, um. The, um, problem. That we were supposed to. To solve."

"That's right. The problem left over—we first went over it on Saturday, but I couldn't get the answer because I'm slow or something."

"We just—we had different answers, John," said Claire softly.

"No, that's not it. I had an answer and then I realized that first one didn't really make sense, and I didn't want to admit it. And then I didn't really have a fucking answer. As you kept fucking reminding me at every turn. So don't start back-pedaling now."

John Bender folded his hands and met her eyes and they were so intense, the rest of the high school and probably the whole town and state of Illinois, for all Claire knew, disappeared.

"So I wanted to tell you, I have fucking gone over that problem from every fucking angle. Every possible combination of answers. In detail. All permutations. All yesterday and all today. Thanks to your fucking, _demonstration_, by the way."

John slammed his hand with all his weight behind it into the locker above Claire's head. "The answer is zero. No remainder."

Claire closed her eyes a moment and tried to find rules to live by. No others. That's what he was saying. "That's what I got," she said, softly.

"But _no_ remainder. Not, you know, half—" his eyes darted to Perce, who looked very puzzled, "Or _less than zero._"

"I only ever got zero, John," whispered Claire, "First try."

John's eyes still looked dark, flashing dangerous. "It looked like you were getting different answers today."

"I was trying it again, I wanted to—try your approach. You know, I thought I might not have the only answer, there could be another solution set—and, if we're supposed to work on it as a team, I should be open to other ideas." Claire was vaguely aware she was babbling.

John smirked, but the danger in his eye kept flashing. "Bad move, I've always sucked at algebra." He backed off, and looked at Claire, then at Perce, then at Claire again. "Yeah, well, maybe we could just call it the fucking empty set, ok?" He shook his head like he was disgusted by something. "Listen, Vernon needs our answers by the end of activities and I'm sure we're supposed to show our work and shit, so, you'll have to excuse us, we can't Choose Life right now because we have tons of fucking algebra to attend to."

Claire was just looking at him, she could feel the smile on her face and she was sure it didn't look like the kind of smile that could be inspired by impending algebra. "_There_ the fuck it is," muttered John.

"What?" asked Claire, suddenly puzzled.

"Something I couldn't find earlier. Never mind. We can use the chem. lab. I asked where there was a classroom." He turned to Perce. "It's been such a fucking pleasure, I'm practically coming right now."

Perce's eyes widened perceptibly. John frowned a second, apparently considering something. Then, in a less obviously nasty tone, he added, "Have fun with Brian. You have a lot in common, actually. Brian loves musicals."

"You-you're friends with Brian, too?" stammered Perce, finally sounding more than rattled.

"Yeah," said John firmly, "very good friends, actually. Although for some reason the little fuck is scared to death to come near me today."

"Can't imagine why that would be," grumbled Perce, not meeting John's eye.

Claire made a sound that resembled choking.

John gave Claire a _look._

"Standish. Algebra. Time's a wasting."

She nodded, waving absently to Perce as she walked towards John Bender. Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure the whole school could hear it but it skipped a beat when John leaned into her slightly and said in a low voice breathed right into her ear, "I am really going to mark the hell out of that answer sheet, I am warning you right now."

* * *

AN: Thank you for your continued interest--and welcome new readers! It never ceases to amaze me that people are following fic for this 25 year-old movie--and I love that some of you are in high school now, and some of you saw the movie when it came out.(Of course I love all the rest of you in between, too)

Reviewers get their answer sheets marked by John Bender.

And let's all give thanks that these characters have aged better than the actors that played them! God Bless film and filmmakers.


	24. Chapter 23

**Greetings and Salutations. Others own, and I profit not. This entire hellish (to write) chapter was inspired by one little innocent, off-hand comment by The Black Arrow, whose fic is godly and in my favorites.  
**

**

* * *

  
**

I'm givin' you decision to make  
Things to lose, things to take  
Just as he's about ready to cut it up,  
She said,  
"Wait a minute honey, I'm gonna  
Add it up"

--Violent Femmes

John Bender was pacing up and down across the chemistry classroom and Claire was watching him pace. All the planes and lines of his body were somehow tense and in motion at the same time and he looked as if something might break out of them from the inside. He hadn't said anything since he whispered in Claire's ear in the hall about marking, and ever since she had been thinking about what that had meant and she found that she wanted it with a new kind of painful.

And since he had whispered those words he had not stood still.

Claire hadn't spoken either because it was all she could do to keep breathing. She didn't know what had happened to make John this way and she had no idea what was coming next. This not knowing was a feeling she loved and that scared her at the same time as it made all the parts of her tingle.

When she did remember to breathe, the air felt grainy and jittery going in and as it sat restless in her chest. Her breath shuddered on the way out which she tried to make less obvious than she knew it was.

When John looked at her and she would forget about breathing altogether, but his glance would be gone as soon as it met hers. Sometimes he'd pause to fidget with some piece of lab equipment or to throw some chalk in the air or to kick a trash can.

Maybe he was going to push harder. Maybe he needed to back off. Maybe he needed to be a total jerk.

She guessed she'd find out soon.

Claire hiked herself up onto one of the lab tables and waited. She would wait and watch him all day. Claire didn't know what was coming and she didn't care. Because whatever it was, it was hers. Because he wanted her for _his._

After what had seemed like a long wait.

She had gotten better at waiting, she found, as she settled down in the darkened classroom after school, door locked and blocked from the inside, as she watched to see if the boy before her would melt or explode.

Finally stopping a moment, John brushed his hair back from his eyes and looked at her. Hard. The energy pent up in his tensely moving body flashed out suddenly from his eyes and landed somehow in the pit of Claire's stomach where it took up churning.

Then his eyes still looked dangerous but the corner of his mouth was twitching toward smirk. Which combination was . . . liquefying.

_Hers_. The way she understood affection was through acquisition, possession, gift_._

"So, Miss Standish." John Bender, who was _hers_, folded his arms, still at some distance from her. His voice had that controlled sound that was so often Claire's undoing because the sound of its control told of its own struggle, told there was something powerful underneath it that wanted out. And that something was also hers.

And she both wanted and did not want to know it.

"Miss Standish, it's come to my attention that we have a little work to make up from English class before we move on to our algebra lesson today."

Claire looked down, then up again, slowly, lashes fluttering. But for now, Claire would play any game John wanted if it would keep him almost smirking like that. She would play it all day long. "Well, that shouldn't be a problem. I'm usually very good in English," and then she hesitated, then let her lip curve up a little, "Mr Bender."

She didn't miss how his breath changed slightly as he watched her call him that, she didn't miss how he had to close his eyes for a moment or how when they opened again they were even more intense or how his smirk looked like it might be winning the battle for his face.

"Yes, Miss Standish. You're usually a very good girl in all things. But lately, you seem a little—off."

"I'm afraid I might have been falling in with a bad crowd," she paused, then added, "Sir."

Lip twitch at the "sir." File for later. "That's very true," John nodded sadly. "Your crowd is indeed full of," and here he paused as if searching for the right words, "pathetic poser wannabe euro jet trash."

"Is that Shakespeare you're quoting?"

"Off the fucking point, Miss Standish." He pointed a scolding finger.

Claire smirked. True. "Well, Mr. Bender, I would never let any school authority tell me who I should and shouldn't hang out with." Claire's battle with her own smirk seemed to be a losing one as she caught John's slight nod. Message received. "But I suppose, a girl should know when to expand her horizons."

John took a step closer, suddenly dark again. "Then I guess I got it wrong," his voice was sharp, letting Claire know how close to the edge of some very steep hidden cliff this game was being played. "I thought we just agreed we were _narrowing _our 'horizons,' Claire." Voice shift. Softer. Sight tremble. Rage or fear. Both.

Scary. As hell. Badass. Emotionally vulnerable. Burnout crush.

All the air in the room was filled with the fact they weren't touching.

Claire met his eyes. "I don't see it that way. I guess like a lot of things in English class, it's a matter of interpretation."

John came closer. "Funny you should say that. That brings us to the topic of today's remedial fucking English lesson. Because we really, really need to discuss your interpretation as it _pertains_ to your use of the word 'harmless.'"

John leaned into the lab table, one hand on either side of Claire's legs. Not touching her.

"Just exactly what part of 'incapable of doing harm,' Miss Standish, were you thinking applied to _me_?"

His stare was making Claire feel like a butterfly pinned to a board again. His stare, and his arms on either side of her body which would have held her in place if she had been capable of moving.

Claire swallowed and found her mouth dry. She found herself light-headed and realized she hadn't been breathing again.

This "harmless" was unexpectedly a very big deal. She tried, "I was thinking that—"

"I'm some kind of puppy, maybe? lap dog? Nice for petting, you can put him outside when he gets annoying?"

He was close to her and this was important, what they were talking about or dancing around was important, but John Bender's closeness made Claire dizzy. Always. Puppy. Head on her lap. Stroking. Definite possibilities.

Rottweiler, maybe.

She didn't say it.

Instead she said, in a voice that was going for clipped but ended up plenty breathy, "Well, I agree about the nice for petting part. Otherwise, Mr. Bender, I'm sorry to say I don't agree with that interpretation either."

He didn't even take the bait about the petting. Claire had no idea how many seconds or minutes elapsed during which John was close to her, staring at her eyes, breathing on her neck and face while she forgot to breathe. But it was a lot of seconds, and they were really long ones. They stayed like that with him pinning her and her not needing to be pinned until he said, his voice quiet and but edged with raw, "So explain to me your _interpretation_ of how I couldn't hurt you."

Wow. He was furious about this. What a thing to be mad at. How incredibly messed up he was.

It made her skin crawl over and under with tongues and fingers of slightly wrong desire. She swallowed again and hoped he would soon put his mouth on her in some delinquent way.

"I was just—I think I meant," she licked her lips, struggled to hold his gaze without flinching, "not so much that you _couldn't_ hurt me but that you wouldn't."

"Huh. But that's not how you looked at me today, Claire." One of his hands was on her face now, just briefly, just the idea of a hand on her face, before it left. "You were practically all over me today, Claire. Hi in the halls, chatty as fuck. Like it was nothing. Like it was the easiest thing in the world."

He paused, brushed his hair back again. He brought his mouth closer to Claire's ear.

"Like either I couldn't hurt you, I didn't cost you anything, or like you weren't fucking even there to give me the opportunity."

He drew back again, watching her. Like a hawk. Really and truly like a hawk, a bird of prey. Like nothing would get past him, and whatever he saw would be used for pain.

"Wh-what do you mean? I—I talked to you. I thought you'd like . . .that." Claire was nervous. He had noticed, which pleased her, strangely, more than she could say. But he didn't understand.

"Do you think I'm an idiot, Claire? Is that what you think?"

She shook her head. Wordless. This was not going as she'd thought it would. And she hadn't had any idea how it would go.

John hand cupped her face a little more firmly this time, he ran his thumb over the blusher on her cheeks. "Do you think I can't tell the difference between a real blush and this crap you put on your cheeks? You think I can't tell when you're not right here? You think I can't tell the difference," and he ran his finger down her neck, over the line where her throat met her chest, "between touching your skin and touching _you_?"

Claire was suddenly done playing. Because that was a difference she _beyond_ understood and the idea that John could too was more than she could have hoped for.

And so she tried to say everything all at once. "I don't think that—or. I didn't know if you could tell the difference. No one else ever could. And I didn't know if you would care, if you could, because you could still have—the skin."

"I could still have the skin. That's very interesting." John traced his finger on her skin again, back up her neck and down, but his eyes were unreadable. "Something give you the impression I wasn't getting enough skin before?"

Claire flinched. "N-no." Like he couldn't hurt her. Right. The images of the blondes and their breasts, looking and being nothing like Claire, looking and being like nothing so much as all the skin John Bender would ever need. She looked down, unable to put his face, here with her, together with those images. "Trust me." Her voice faltered. "Nothing gave me that impression."

"That's what I thought." He leaned into her again, no touching, the distance between his arms on either side of her and the contours of her sides and hips vibrating. "I'm not sure you wanna bring up the issue of trust with me right now, though, Claire. Not so sure you really wanna examine who ran out on who _this_ time."

"You don't have to trust people who can't hurt you, John, it's just not even an issue," Claire snapped. "And anyway, I'm right here, I didn't go anywhere."

"Like fuck you didn't. But we'll return to that question later in the review session. For now, just so we're clear as goddamn crystal on this, we both agree that I can take care of getting plenty of skin without any help from a spoiled-rotten tease of a virgin teen princess, right?"

Claire nodded again. She wasn't feeling so good anymore. She didn't know why John was so mad. She just didn't. This could be so hard. This could hurt so much. Even after—his algebra breakthrough. She closed her eyes.

She tried to keep in mind his story of the sloth that only knew to lash out when it came down from its safety in the branches of trees.

She tried again to get her mind around being with someone you knew could and would hurt you. It was possibly a working definition of being in love.

"We agree." She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

It wasn't fair, she knew. He didn't know what she was trying to do. He didn't know about this morning with Vernon, or about the important diamond-shaped plastic in her purse. It wasn't fair but it still hurt to hear him call her those things while she was trying so hard to be different. It was a pain she already knew that did not lessen.

"We agree. You don't--need me. So what are you doing here, then, with such an awful person?" Her voice had tears dripping from it even though her eyes were dry. She hated the sound.

John shook his head slightly, whether in disgust or disbelief Claire for the life of her could not say. "Very funny, Miss Standish. Admirable use of irony." He moved his mouth closer to her ear again and she felt a huge, painful shudder of desire at his voice and breath on her. "But you definitely misquoted what we were agreeing on. I'm afraid you only get partial credit, there. And what I'm doing here, _Claire,_ is calling you on your bullshit."

Yes he was, that was what he was doing and it was, after all, one of his functions. Claire stopped breathing again while John kept talking.

"You think maybe I just talk to hear myself? You even listen to a word I said last night, when you were—what was it you were doing, last night, for the first time? Or did that slip your mind already."

Claire gasped, the breath rushing into her as she remembered. It was a better memory than what happened later. His hips on her. His mouth on her. Her back, her head on bricks. His eyes. His hands.

His words. _Just this. Just thinking about touching you. _

And then her mouth was next to _his_ ear and she was whispering, "I will never, ever forget. Not as long as I live. I could _never_ forget that. Not a single word." Because she couldn't bear for him to think that, even for one second.

"Good fucking answer, Miss Standish," he said, and his voice was shaking, but then it steadied, grew colder. Again. Endless, endless push and pull. "But once was enough, I guess. Or you were having second thoughts. Because pool halls, alleys, not so much your thing." His voice sounded distant again, cold, taunting. His eyes looked the opposite, raw and needy.

"Wrong. Wrong again. Wish you could get a good answer for once. Because that alley was—it was _beautiful, _but then—our night didn't end in that alley."

John slammed his hands into the lab table, shaking it on its legs. Still on either side of Claire. Angry. Hard.

Defensive. Totally defensive, Claire realized. Score one for the princess. He was close to yelling now. "That's _right._ Because _you_ walked out on _me._ With _another guy._ Because still _other_ guys might see you with me. And you have the fucking—princessy rich girl _balls_ to pretend like _I_ did—"

But that was too much. Claire did have, after all, princessy rich girl balls. And if John Bender confused her for a pushover just because he could do _that _to her body or because she wanted him so badly it made all the other bodily functions a huge challenge--he had a _big_ surprise coming.

"Bull _fucking_ shit, John Bender. Don't ever _try_ to start with me. And I don't need to call you on your bullshit there because somewhere deep down inside you know it better you know your own name." Her voice, if it was trembling now, was trembling with anger.

John looked shocked. Score.

She continued, on a roll now. Going for broke. Because it didn't matter now because he was _hers_ and now that she knew how that felt, if he was going to try to back out of it, she was _done._ "Like you couldn't come up with the complicated sentence. 'Hey, I'm with someone now.' Like you couldn't come up with a better way of saying goodbye to me after I came all the way down there, after what you put me through yesterday, after what happened in that alley than—than what you told Brian _fucking_ Johnson to tell me."

"I love it when you talk dirty, Claire," Claire knew the cadences of John Bender's voice like she'd studied nothing else for years and this one she knew better than the alphabet. This was pure John Bender distance and distract strategy.

"Fuck you. And not in a hot way. Maybe not ever. Because you said you don't want to talk about _trust. _And don't play innocent about why I would want to back off from you. You know and that's why—you broke down and—and gave in, and are _settling_ for being just with me and—that's why I was backing off _inside._ Because _no one_ will touch me the way you touch me and turn around and touch someone else. Because I would _rather die."_

She took a deep breath and went on. "But I was still running in a way I hoped you wouldn't notice. Because I wouldn't run all the way because the thought of not being with you makes me sick."

John hissed suddenly, "Say that again."

Claire paused. Thought. Repeated, slowly.

"The thought of not being with you makes me sick."

For a moment there was only the sound of John's breathing. Then he spoke with that control that hides a struggle voice and Claire wondered how she managed to sit up straight while so totally liquefied until she realized she was kept upright by anger.

"Ok," He said, conceding a point. "That was one very good fucking answer, Miss Standish. But I did not touch _anyone_ besides you." Again with the pacing. "You are so fucking wrong about so many things you may not graduate from this class. But keep talking. You ran in a way you hoped that I, like the fucking _idiot_ you take me for, wouldn't notice and then you turn on a dime and come back all soft and touchable in your skin like you know I am a _total pussy _for. And this is some kind of _game_ to you, maybe? Or tell me. What's so different now that you'll again _grace_ me with your actual—reality."

"Um, everything. Everything's different."

John shook his head. "You're so fucking _clueless,_ Claire Standish. To begin with, you have _no clue_ about how I reached my brilliant goddamn algebra conclusion in the hall. _Yes_ I'm giving in. I'm giving in my _goddamn principles._ I don't _buy into_ all that possessive possession shit about girls. I _told_ you. But I can't fucking control it now. It's because you stirred up all this—Jesus Christ, Claire. If I have to think of another guy's hands on you, or tongue on you, let alone _see_ it, I will fucking murder the goddamn planet. I _hate_ that shit. I don't _believe_ in that bullshit but you have been grinding my nose in it all fucking week. And now I'm done. I am so _fucking_ done with it. _No one_ but me. Don't even _think_ about it."

Claire started a battle with another smile and nodded.

"And I didn't _fucking_ touch another girl last night, you _bitch. _I don't even wanna touch _you_ in that way that I—used to touch other girls because—because I don't even fucking know why, but I just don't. I don't want some Claire Standish light, tastes great, less filling. This is all or goddamn _nothing, _got that? I don't want some convenient part of you, some part you can _spare, _that costs you nothing and hurts nothing to lose."

The pacing was starting to make Claire dizzy. Again the room had shrunk or John had grown so that there seemed no way it could contain him. But she was also dizzy because angry as he was, he was saying _exactly_ what she most wanted him to say. Until he kept talking and things got worse again.

"And no, that _phrase_ you're now throwing at me that I should have said to those girls in _my fucking pool hall_ didn't occur to me because I'm _new_ at this and like I said, they are my friends and I don't want to hurt them."

That--was not what she wanted him to say. "So you'd rather hurt me?" Claire folded her arms. "Or maybe--you'd _really_ rather hurt me. I mean, is that why you were so upset when I told _my best friend_ who was worried about me that I thought you were harmless to me? Because there goes your _fun?_"

Slam! Went the hands on either side of her body again, clenched and brown with knuckles whitening against the black tabletop. His gaze was deep and terrible, his whole being written over by pain and desire that on John's face were suddenly indistinguishable.

Claire cringed. Not for the violence of the gesture.

She thought of his hands on her too hard, in the boiler room when he'd been so angry. She thought of the look on his face as he took his hands off her, how he'd looked at those hands. His horror. His fear of his own hands.

It was then, too late, she remembered that pain was the only expression of love he knew. That telling John he couldn't hurt her was like telling him she couldn't love him. That John probably believed that if he loved her, he _would_ hurt her. Not in the talking to other girls way, but with his hands.

_Oh god._

John just looked at her, and then he dropped his hands from the table and backed off. And then he looked at his hands again and shook his head and now the disgust was clear as day but it was directed at no one but him. "Y'see, Claire? You're fucking clueless. You're pathetic. What are you doing here? Nothing changed except now you're all happy for the wrong reasons. Just cause I don't _want_ any other girls doesn't make me a—prince for a princess, y'know?" He backed off a step further, heading towards the door. "I'm still just—" he gestured toward himself, stealing a look at his clothes, her clothes, his hands again—"just the same fuck-up, y'know? It's still just me. You should _listen_ to your little friend Beth, Claire. You should _listen_ to the motherfucking school officials. I'm not the one that's _settling, _Cherry. As you well fucking know. No matter what scarf or diamonds you put on me—it's _still just me._"

"John." Claire eased off the lab table and walked toward him. He backed away but she would not have it. She reached out and grabbed his grubby, layered collars and jerked him to her. His eyes registered desire, and suddenly, more pain and want that Claire could even bear. Holding his shirt with one hand, she reached out to palm his cheek with the other and watched as his whole _soul_ fought not to lean into her touch.

"John Bender. Don't _you_ listen to a word _I_ said? Did you think I was feeding you a line last night just to get in your pants?"

His lip twitched. And then he chuckled, in spite of everything he'd just said. "I don't know. You virgin princesses—you'll say anything to cop a feel. It's disgusting, when you think about it. "

And Claire giggled too, but then got serious again. Because she was. And he was too good at deflecting what he most needed to hear. "John. You total idiot. Just _you_ is what I want. Just you. And just me."

At that, John closed his eyes, and they stayed just like that a few moments, her hand on his face, his eyes closed, and Claire waited again, now_ trying_ not to breathe.

And then his eyes opened onto hers and she thought they would swallow her and then he said, "Very good fucking answer, Miss Standish."

He slowly brought his face closer to hers, as if to kiss her mouth but then he dodged, slowly, and made for her ear. "You really—"

And then he pulled back and shook his head, and what Claire saw as she looked into his eyes broke her heart into little baby pieces, because his face that was usually a collection of sharply drawn angles was so soft, and so unbelieving, so _shocked_ despite everything, everything she'd said and showed him. Again. And she felt a tear spring up in her eye and she felt it spill over and she said, "Oh, John—" and her own voice sounded sweet and soft and too full to make words because the feeling she saw there on his face was so much _more_ and so much softer and sadder than she'd known.

He took her face between both hands and looked deep at her with eyes that had nothing to do with control or power for once and were not hard or flashing but just _looking,_ and _seeing, _and _trying_ to believe, and she swallowed with the sad thought that _this_ was part of what was fighting to come out when John was fighting for control, _this_ was what he worked so hard to keep a lid on, _this_ was the boy who hadn't ever had someone touch him with love.

He kept looking at her, then he shook his head, straining not for control but for words, and said, "You really wanna do this—_you_—with _me_?"

Claire just nodded and smiled and put her hand up to brush his hair as she always did, and said, "Duh, John Bender."

And then he _hugged_ her. Tight. And then he shook his head laughing again. "Another banner fucking answer. You're gonna go to an excellent college." One hand was on Claire's face, tracing her cheek and jaw and the other was on the back of her head.

And Claire decided it was time to change things up again.

"I don't know, John, I appreciate your attention to my future college career, but if you don't apply appropriate pressure when marking the answer sheet, I'm not going to get credit for any of these answers I've studied so hard to provide."

The sound of John's breath filled the room. "Oh fuck me, Claire. Are you really gonna let me do that? Now, here? Are you really gonna let me," and his hand strayed to her neck and he stroked it like it was the holy grail, "on your pretty neck? It's so fucking pretty, Claire, you don't know how bad I want to—but I—it's so—delicate—"

_John Bender used the word delicate._ "_Please_ John, even when I don't want to, I think about it, ever since you asked, but I —I want you to _mean_ it."

"Oh, fuck, Claire. You have no idea how much I mean it. Oh, God," He moved his mouth closer and closer to the skin on her neck, "Cherry, you smell so good. I wake up so hard from dreaming about you, just your neck, just here."

John Bender was very articulate when it came to certain things. Claire knew this. It was still always an incredibly good surprise. He ran over with his finger where he'd stroked her before, making her gasp. "Even when I was all pissed off at you today I got all hard from thinking how you're gonna moan when I finally make it bloom." He stroked again, then brought his mouth to her, firmly with tongue and lips but no teeth. She gasped again. He spoke then, into her neck, pacing his words with firm, wet pressure from his tongue. "I love looking at where you bruised me, Claire. You're so fucking erotic. I just wanna get lost in you. I love your skin, it's so beautiful, don't get me wrong, what I said before, I'm so goddamn into your skin, but—how you let it connect to the rest of you, I'd never seen that before."

_John Bender used the word beautiful._

"Now that way when I touch you it touches you all the way, it's all I fucking want, nothing means anything without it." He stroked her hair gently, kissed her, _sweetly_, with his lips on her neck and then. Then his mouth was harder and she felt his teeth scrape and felt him suck her skin through his teeth and work it with his tongue which was thick and hard and velvet and soft and it hurt _deliciously,_ _amazingly_ and the moan that came out of her connected to her chest and thighs and between them and although she had wanted this she had not known, had not known to imagine there was something that felt like this.

Again.

It was what he did, another function of John Bender, to open new worlds in her body. His mouth widened and took more skin and bit more and she leaned into him and just then he grabbed her ass with his free hand and drew her hips into his and he growled like he was saying what she dreamed each night of his saying and then he said it, not with words but with teeth on her throat, he said and wrote, "Mine."

Claire knew this because it was a language she knew, his mouth on her neck a place where their dialects of pain and possession came together.

At last John moved his head back far enough to admire his work. Claire watched, wide-eyed and breathing hard, as his gaze played over her neck where he must have bruised her, his hand moved from where it had been in her hair to rub gently there. His eyes flickered from pleasure to pride to something like reverence that made Claire quiver even more beneath her skin and all the new places John was teaching her could hum and tingle.

"That's fucking beautiful. Oh, God. You don't know how it feels for me, to see that—to _hear_ you like that with my mouth on you."

John looked dizzy, he was being so open, saying unbelievable things again that made Claire feel dizzy and it was perhaps the dizziness that led her hand to stray over the front of his jeans as she said, "See, I think of it more like _expanding_ horizons," and she met his widening eyes with her own, full on, her hand there. _There._ John's gasp was sharp as he closed his eyes and then opened them, exposing dilated pupils. His jaw dropped, slackened, then tensed again.

"Jesus motherfucking Christ, Claire."

She moved her hand, suddenly shy, not sure what to do and remembering she had so much to learn. There were plenty of things she was not ready for but she was perfectly ready to learn how to make John Bender gasp and even, she hoped, _scream._

"I just feel like I have so much to learn," she said softly. "I've been studying up, but--" Claire hoisted herself back up on the lab table and let her legs swing. She cocked her head to one side and licked her lips. "Will you help teach me?"

"Fuck me raw til goddamn Tuesday, Standish. What the fuck do you have against my having dry pants?"

Getting back to business with the war against her own smirk, Claire tossed her head. She did have a lot to learn. But John had a lot to learn, too, about the benefits of having a girlfriend who liked to be extremely skilled and thorough in _all_ her endeavors. "Well, like I said last night. I can't help it if you refuse to come prepared."

She ghosted her hand over the top of his jeans again, but not daring to go too much lower. "But--was that," she bit her lip, "a good start?"

John whistled noiselessly, shaking his head. "It was very fucking close to a good finish, Cherry. What are you up to?"

Claire took out a cherry-flavored lipgloss and started applying it to her lips. "Isn't it natural," she said, looking up at John through her lashes, "that I would want to get to know my way around my new exclusive property? Were you not thinking of that contingency?"

"I'll give you fucking contingency, Claire," growled John as he made for her, eyes blazing and completely crazed looking, "right there on the fucking contingent lab table."

But Claire held up a hand. "Time and a place, Mr Bender. Please. What makes you think we should do this in a _chemistry_ lab_?_"

"Every. Fucking. Thing." Then John's body was shoved between her legs and his tongue was deep in her mouth. His hand strayed down _her, _to just over where he'd never touched and still didn't. Because he was so weirdly a gentleman. "So that's gonna be mine, then, Standish?"

She pulled off a shrug. "If you weren't such a slow learner, you'd know it had been in trust for you since Saturday. But it only gets _disbursed_ to you in stages." She kissed him softly and finished the sentence into his mouth. "As you show you can be responsible with it. It's a big responsibility and if you access too much of it too early, I'm afraid there's penalties that may be out of my control." Her speech had started out lightly, but as it went on she realized how serious she was and how _hard_ she meant it and it frightened her so that by the end she could not meet his eyes.

"Claire. Sweetheart."

_John Bender called me sweetheart again._

"For the last fucking time and no matter how hard you tease me, I am not interested in _incurring those penalties._" John's face looked desperate. Somewhat perversely, this made Claire smile.

She clapped him on the shoulder, full of camaraderie. "I know. And that's how I know how patient you're going to be while I learn my way around your parts with just my hands and tongue. Cause John, you're a patient man. And I love that about you."

Claire pushed a dazed looking John aside and began fixing her hair. As she took out her mirror, she paused. "Just so you know, John, even when you were so worried I was going _away,_ I had all kinds of plans for your _skin_—in that superficial way you now disdain." Claire reached back into her purse and pull out a plastic oblong diamond shape with a key attached to one end. She pressed it into John's palm. "This morning I got you a motel room for your poker game tomorrow night." She licked her lips. "And I was thinking maybe I'd stay over."

She moved back so she could watch as John Bender's eyes got very wide.

And then he stammered. "You got a _room?_"

It wasn't easy to floor John Bender. But Claire Standish had done it once again. Score one more for the Princess.

"Yeah, I thought if I was going to get desensitized so you could just touch my skin without it going deeper I would need practice."

Now John's eyes were very intense. "I would fucking hate that."

"You'd get over it."

"No. I know you think that. Hell, _I_ would think that. But I—" John pushed his body back.

He crossed his arms, back to mad but clearly still revving at _way_ turned on. "Did you not understand, did you not fucking _feel_ what I meant, Claire?" His face softened, he reached out to touch her neck once more. "On the skin and _inside. _When I do that—it puts me on you, but it--it brings _you_ inside of _me__—_" He was struggling. Claire realized she was driving him completely crazy.

She decided to go for broke with that, too.

She fixed her eyes straight on him. "Geez, John. I thought you were good at reading signs." Now it was _her_ turn to shake her head sadly. "Do you honestly not _know_ what it _does_ to me, to have you. . . . do that to me, and mean it? Especially after all the time I spent in my underwear in bed touching myself and thinking about _just that._ I mean, you're the expert here, right? Don't you see signs of how much every single part of me loved what you just did? Did you not see me check it out in the mirror, because I'd been dreaming of having your mouth on me that way? Because I want to look at myself and see where you were?" She rolled her eyes. "Slow learner." Claire took another deep breath. "Maybe you're the one who needs a tutorial."

John was breathing plenty hard now, too. "Maybe I just need access to some new materials." His sounded exactly like gravel.

"Well, that might be so, but access to those materials hasn't yet been cleared. But—close your eyes."

****

**Brief M-Rated _Really _Good Feelings mildish smuttake, John POV, in the near future. Those don't "alert" w/Good Feelings so put Really Good Feelings or me on alert if you want to be, well, alerted . . . and you are old enough. But as always, if M-ratings are not your thing, if any plot points sneak in, they will be recapped at the beginning of the next chapter of this fic. **

**Usually fic is fun and easy (more or less) for me to write. But this chapter killed. So **** if you tell me where I've made mistakes, I might even try to learn how to fix them****, which I so far fail at. ****If you want to get in touch/ ask questions, I am candysayz on Twitter. If you reviewed and didn't get the Rocket outtake, let me know how to get it to you. And if you review--well, our love is God. Let's get a Slushee. **

**xoxoo to strangeasangels and GildedButterfly, for timely and very meaningful reviews. And everyone--I read them and love them.  
**


	25. Chapter 24

**Hi there. Thank you for all your encouragement. I know I violated a pinky swear, and I am duly ashamed. But, here it is at long last (and at long length). I got a lot of wonderful reviews on that last chapter, for which I was sincerely grateful, so grateful I even tried to reply where I could. This chapter has been improved by the betaing efforts of the generous and lovely BlackFrancine. The remaining errors are my fault, or the fault of my wordprocessingfail. But they are fewer than usual.  
**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of The Breakfast Club characters. I don't know who does, but I'm sure they're still making money on it, which I am not. I don't really feel like I own Rocket, either. He just sort of showed up one day. **

* * *

Third verse, same as the first.

-Violent Femmes

Allison Reynolds looked long and out of place, a black smudge in a sea of pink. That was how she saw herself, anyway. She rolled over on her stomach and propped herself up on her arms to get a better view of Claire, who was talking about a boy and giggling. Claire Standish looked as if she was made to lie in pink fluff. She was sucking a pink lollipop, and Allison though she looked pretty. Too pretty to be Allison's friend.

Except now Allison could look pretty too. She had a red lollipop, and she was on a sleepover.

Life was weird.

"So, would you say you have him wrapped around your pinky finger, or do you need the full force of your hand to hold the leash?" Allison twisted a strand of her dark hair around her little finger, and then grabbed a clump of it in her hand and pulled, demonstrating.

Claire giggled again, then sighed breathily. "I don't know. Maybe I'm the one on the leash. I just—he just—ungh."

"Ungh?" Allison felt the smile on her own face and enjoyed it like a new kind of new pet.

"Definitely ungh."

"Like between your legs, ungh?" That was what Allison had been feeling about Andy lately, but she wasn't sure it was a good idea to say. She still wasn't sure what to say a lot of the time, and her old strategy of saying nothing at all, or saying the one thing she was sure she _shouldn't _say—well, she was kind of sick of it.

"Allison!" Claire blushed and buried her head in her pink fluffy pillows.

At first, Allison felt like she'd said the wrong thing and she felt like maybe she'd like to crawl under the rug with some Pixie Stix. She was a little nervous and this made it even more likely that she'd say the wrong thing. That had been less of a problem when she didn't speak.

But then she noticed that, actually, Claire didn't seem unhappy with her or even with the question, just a little wriggly. Sometimes, Allison knew, people needed to pretend that they didn't want to say or hear the things they really wanted to say or hear most of all. She decided this was probably one of those times because she'd watched Claire look at John in a very "ungh" way and she probably wasn't talking about that with Bethany or her other friends.

"Well?" she prodded, nudging Claire gently in the hip with her foot. The motion made the whole pink puffy bed rock slightly. It was the most ridiculous piece of furniture Allison had ever seen.

Claire sighed, rolled over on her back, and nodded, putting her hands up to her face. "Oh my _God,_ yes. _Total_ ungh. Right there." She sighed. "I hope that doesn't make me a total slut."

"I'm pretty sure what makes you a slut is taking money for it," said Allison after some deliberation. In a moment, she added, "But then, if you're taking money for it, there probably isn't much ungh."

Claire shuddered, then giggled, and then collapsed with a snort. "Well, there's plenty of ungh, and definitely no money." She rolled her eyes. "Like he could afford me anyway."

"Good point."

"And anyway, _he_ doesn't get to feel it ungh between my legs."

Allison nodded vigorously. She was having girl talk, and she thought it was going really well. "I'm the same way. And I don't tell Andy, either, what it feels like—but I think I might show him."

For some reason, Claire blushed deeper. "Um, I'm—yeah. I, um, definitely I show him, too." The color of Claire's face almost matched the color of her hair, which was incredible. Then she blurted, "I mean John! Gah! I mean, not—"

Allison was deeply happy at the sight of Claire Standish being awkward and stammering. She found it cute and endearing. Allison hadn't ever really explored the possibility of being endeared before. It was nice. She even stopped thinking about what she was gong to say before she said it.

"It's OK, Claire. I'm pretty sure I believe you're not showing Andy how he makes you ungh between your legs."

Allison still talked like she was an oracle making a pronouncement half the time, but Claire had decided she liked that. Plus it was pretty funny to have an oracle in your bedroom talking about "ungh."

Claire smiled at Allison. "I'm glad we have that kind of friendship where you know I wouldn't ungh your boyfriend."

"Well, I'm pretty sure if you had wanted to ungh him, you know, before, you would have had the chance. From what it looked like."

Claire shook her head. "I never really unghed. Not for anyone. Not before John. And no one, _ever_, between—you know, there."

The two licked their lollipops in silence a moment.

Claire hoped Allison wasn't really worried there'd ever been any of _that_ between Andy and her. Of course he'd kind of tried because they were in the same set and all the boys pretty much tried with all the available girls, just to see if something stuck. But it was never personal. It was more like playing Legos or something.

"I mean, I never even _felt_ it before. Not there."

Allison nodded. "John is sexy."

Claire felt a strange combination of pride and anxiety at this statement.

"No offense," added Allison. "Just stating a fact."

Claire sighed. "I know. And I know you would never. It's just—it's a lot of competition. From girls who'd go a lot farther than I would."

"John Bender looks at you like you're the second coming of Christ, an ice cream sundae, and a porno flick all wrapped into one."

Claire's coloring matched her hair again. "Oh my _God, _I don't know what is more disturbing, the fact that you just said that or the fact that I want to believe it."

"Definitely the second one. I'm a freak-we expect that kind of thing from me. But you're a nice, normal girl who shouldn't be combining those ideas. It'll scar you." Allison licked her lollipop again. "But you can believe it, because I never lie."

"I thought you said you were a compulsive liar!"

"I was lying."

Claire hit Allison with a fluffy pillow, and Allison hit her back. They threw pillows at each other for a while until they were laughing so hard that they couldn't breathe. Then Claire lay her head in Allison's lap and Allison let her fingers run through the red strands. It looked pretty, and Allison thought she might like to draw it later, if she could just take a picture of it in her mind. She concentrated. She knew Bethany would be there soon, and she liked Bethany, but these moments with Claire were somehow different and she wanted to remember them just as they were.

"Know what's weird?" asked Claire.

Allison nodded. "Yeah, I'm kind of an expert."

"Duh. But that isn't what I meant. What's weird is, John Bender is definitely, like, my boyfriend now."

"So says your neck."

Claire felt her hand wander up to the mark on her neck. The touch of her own hand sent touch echoes rippling over and under the skin. She felt trails of his hands, his mouth. Her skin was tingling everywhere, and her breath still fluttered. She looked over to her door where John's old scarf now hung from the knob, and as she closed her eyes she felt its scratchy, worn surface as he wrapped it against her neck, and she smelled its smoky boy smell on her.

Just the thought of it made her crawl with want. It was like there were fingers between her legs stroking her with little trails of John Bender want. She was afraid to have anyone go there, but it didn't mean she didn't _want_ it.

He'd spoken softly and quickly, his voice a little rough. "See, if I was a jock you'd have a nice coat to wear, but now you're stuck with a ratty old scarf. Careful what you wish for."

She'd tried to speak, she'd felt her lips and mouth working but no sound came out. It was as if the feeling inside Claire Standish was so enormous that it couldn't pass through even the admittedly not very small mouth allotted to it.

John had kept his hand on the scarf, staring at it on her neck. He brushed a finger over where the rough edge met her skin. This made Claire sigh shakily, which made John smile. "At least it doesn't have a number to ID the motherfucker who gave it to you."

In this way, he let her know wasn't marking her. In fact, he was covering his mark, shielding her from prying eyes. But he was making it seem like he wasn't doing that, so Claire wouldn't feel like she had to argue. Which was great, because she didn't want to. She didn't want to walk through the halls with an enormous hickey and have everyone wondering where it came from.

To be honest, she wasn't even quite ready to walk through the halls with John Bender as his girlfriend. She would have, if he'd asked. But he didn't ask. And Claire was relieved he didn't ask even at the same time that she was worried that he didn't want to walk through the halls with her, either.

It was all still a little confusing.

John's eyes weren't quite meeting hers as he'd wrapped his old scarf around her. It was like he didn't want to see what she thought of it, of him, of the grubbiness of his gesture.

So she grabbed the scarf she'd given him and pulled him to her and said into his mouth, "I like what you put on my neck, slow learner." Her mouth was as close as she could bring it to his mouth without touching, so that her breath was touching his lips but her lips weren't. She thought it was sexy.

She thought he thought so, too.

"Aw, Jesus, Claire," he'd said. "How'm I supposed to get out of here when you're gonna be like that?" He was doing the same thing, keeping his mouth close to her face without touching it. "Cut that out." But his voice was a little gravelly and scolding and pouty at the same time. His hands were down by her thighs, barely touching them.

"Don't wanna." Claire thought she might die of his sudden cuteness. "When I'm like what?"

"Sweet and hot as fuck. Oh, God, I gotta go," he'd breathed.

It sounded like it cost him something to leave her. She loved that.

"Me, too," she breathed.

But neither of them moved to leave. Claire brought her hips a little closer to his, though, and rocked back and forth. John rolled his eyes, and he breathed in sharply.

"I'll see you tomorrow night?" Claire asked, her eyes locked into his.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Then Claire took John's hand and pulled a pen from her pocket. "I hope you realize how much girlish pride I have to swallow to do this when you've never even asked for it," she murmured, writing her phone number on the back of his hand.

But when she looked up at John Bender's face, what she saw was an evil-looking smirk. "Sorry, what was that? You lost me at 'swallow.'"

And then Claire had to beat his arm with some personal belongings.

"Oh, my God, in your perverted, disgusting _dreams."_

"I told you about that one? Hey, ow, that hurt!"

"PERV!"

"As advertised, sweetheart," and for the first time, John's hand had darted out toward her crotch, and Claire had swatted it away, hard.

On her big, pink, fluffy bed, Claire wiggled her toes in happiness. Then she had a thought.

"Hey, Allison? Can I ask you something?"

Allison shrugged. "Course."

"Does—you know, what happened to you, what you told me—does that, like, I don't know, interfere?"

She felt Allison's lap stiffen under her head.

"With the ungh?" Her voice was suddenly without expression.

Claire nodded. She stretched, then propped herself up on one arm so she was facing Allison, who had moved to in the same position. Their eyes met.

Allison spoke slowly. "Not exactly. I mean, it doesn't interfere with my feeling it, but, I think it might make me—I don't know-a little gun shy. But I probably would be, anyway."

"Have you thought about telling Andy?"

Now it was Allison's turn to flop back on the bed. Claire watched as her eyes closed with a little wince. Claire worried she might have said the wrong thing, but she was pretty sure that if someone told you about something like that, it was really important to follow up. Like once it got spoken, you had to speak it back. Even if it was a little hard. And a lot awkward.

"I've thought about it," whispered Allison, "but I can't—make the words come out. And I don't want him to get, you know, all weird."

"Yeah."

"I kind of have the weird covered in our relationship."

Claire giggled in spite of herself, because it was really true. It was easy to get serious again, though. Because even though people at school joked about this kind of thing, people including her own boyfriend—although she'd noticed he'd stopped that—there just wasn't anything funny about sexual assault.

So she said, quiet but trying to be firm, "But I think, if it was me, I mean, if I felt about someone the way it looks like Andy feels, when he looks at you? I think, I'd probably want to know. I'd definitely want to know if there was something—like that. You know, especially if something I did might—trigger, or something, a memory, I mean."

"But see, that's just it, I'm afraid he won't want to touch me, then. Like he'll think I'm dirty or fragile." Allison sighed. "Or both," she whispered.

"I—he won't think you're dirty. And I think—he'll see what I see. That you were really strong."

"You think? Guys think different. They're, you know, kind of caveman-dumb about some stuff."

Claire couldn't really argue with that. She also knew she was caveman-dumb in some of the same ways, but this probably wasn't the time to bring it up.

Because here she was, Claire Standish, making a social interaction all about _the other person._ So she didn't say anything about herself in that way. Instead, she made an offer.

"Hey, I've known Andy for a while and I'm kind of, familiar or whatever. If you want, I could talk to him, just tell him what you told me, and then—you guys could talk. Or even not talk, yet, if you didn't want. And that way, he'd have some time to think about it and calm down and you wouldn't have to deal with the full force of the caveman-dumbness, if there was any. Which there would be. Because of course Andy will just want to kill whoever it was. That's how he'll feel-I know him. But it isn't really about that."

Allison settled back to facing Claire. "I'll think about it." They stared at each other for a moment. "I want to try on some of your clothes," Allison said. "Nothing pink," she added.

{{{{BC}}}}}

John Bender's head was swirling with red hair and lips shiny with _fuck_ that was sexy and a goddamn motel key in his pocket. His boots kept walking. He'd check in on reality from time to time to find that the boots were in fact taking him in the direction of Rocket's garage. Which was good, since that was where his potential job was.

John was just glad that some part of him was taking him there, because his mind was taking him between Claire's legs, again and again. And between her lips. And in her hand. And back to the bruise on her neck he had put there as she moaned in his arms, under his mouth, under his teeth.

Because he had a motherfucking girlfriend.

Well, not like that was so new. The new part was that he had only one.

Except he felt like he still had about fifteen because the one he did have was so changeable. She was popular and bitchy and sweet and sexy and porn star and innocent, and then distant and close, at the same time.

Distant and close had really _sucked, _though_._

The thought of it still gave him a little adrenalin rush, panic and anger and pain mixing. He couldn't fucking believe it, the way she could be right there, but not really _right there. _And she _knew _it. He was still reeling from it a little.

Apparently he was still reeling from it a lot, considering how he just stumbled over his own fucking boot. Also, he was pretty sure he'd reeled right into steady boyfriend status, and now he somehow had to break up with all those other girls he hadn't even really _been_ with.

"You know how we were never really going out? Well, we can't anymore." That was gonna be excellent. He couldn't fucking wait to do that fourteen times or however many it was. Who even knew?

Whatever it took though. That was the clear message of the day. Whatever it took for her to be there, all there, with him, and just him. Just like that.

Just like that, but in a hotel room because Claire Standish _rocked._

Of course, he'd still never managed to ask for her goddamn phone number, which he had meant to do, like, fifty times. Sure now he had it, but he was supposed to _ask. _She'd practically told him to, and he still couldn't even pull _that_ much off in his new role as boyfriend to a Princess.

And of course, she still left the classroom first, making sure no one saw.

Of course, he saw that stuff.

He couldn't really say it didn't hurt a little. He couldn't really say she wasn't a little confusing with her mixed signals about him and them and sex and—

But on that topic, Claire was confusing in a way that would apparently make John Bender hard for the rest of his life.

He tried to think about Rocket's gut for a while. That helped.

And then there he was, at his new job. Which he'd decided not to mention to Claire, after all. He'd been all excited to tell her, and then all that stuff had gone down, and suddenly, he found himself doubting whether being a junior grease monkey was the kind of awesome fucking news a prom queen clapped her princess hands in glee for. Maybe it would be cooler if she just found out about it, or if he mentioned it absentmindedly like it wasn't such a big fucking deal that he had a crap job as a kind of under-mechanic.

It was a big motherfucking deal, but maybe it didn't look so good to advertise that.

John shook his head. "I swear to God," he muttered. He didn't know which way was up anymore.

He also noticed that the hours in the day were somehow longer than usual when he wasn't with Claire. He felt funny, like itchy. Which was weird, because he lived for weekends, usually. But slowly, he realized he'd seen Claire at least a couple of times during the day all week and, the last two days, he'd seen her at night, too. He'd gotten to touch her, look at her eyes, have her stroke his hair and make him feel like—well, really good in a variety of different ways when she wasn't making him feel like total shit. Which apparently he _still_ preferred to not being with her at all.

And now he wasn't going to see her tonight _or _all day tomorrow. And that suddenly felt almost close to impossible. It felt _so long._ And it had only been two hours and he had more than twenty-four to go.

So he was plenty glad to have a job to go to. Detention the next day, though, would really suck. It would suck ass. It would suck _balls._ Actually, it would suck Dick.

John shuddered.

"Bender! Grab some coveralls and get under a truck!" The big voice was somewhat muffled. John judged it to be coming from behind the hood of a large Pontiac.

"Hello, to you, too, Rocket," he called out.

Everything in the garage was a little grubby and smelled like motor oil and rubber. But tool chests smeared with grease were lined neatly in the corner, spare parts lay on labeled shelves and John noted a line of cars-none too new-looking-behind the bays, waiting for work.

Rocket's voice boomed from behind the Pontiac again. "Save the small talk for when I'm not elbow deep in transmission, OK, kid? Gary'll set you up."

And Gary did. He and John knew each other from the pool hall and around, or times when John would stop by to give Rocket shit.

So John was, indeed, under a truck remembering how to do an oil change and happy as a clam when the phone rang and he heard Gary's voice say the words,

"Hey, Rocket, that Standish chick is on the phone for you again. Said she wants to firm things up."

It was lucky no one could see John's face. Because no employee should be looking at his boss like that on the first day of a new job, and John knew it.

On the phone for Rocket _again?_

Rocket cackled and John heard him make his way to the office, but once he was behind the glass wall, John couldn't hear what was being said. So he didn't get to hear what exactly the fuck Rocket and John's new girlfriend were _firming up_ together.

It was killing him. So it was only fair he kill someone else in return. Whether it would be his girlfriend or his new boss, only time would tell. Maybe both at the same time-a two for one special.

Maybe they'd like that, seeing as how things like "both," "at the same time," and "with each other" seemed to be working just great for them, judging by the length of the phone call.

John tried to take a deep breath, but it turns out that this is a really bad idea when you're underneath a pick-up truck.

Through his spluttering, he heard Rocket laughing. He had stretched the phone cord extra long so that he could stand in the doorway. "What's that, sweetheart? Will I see John tonight?" Rocket was talking extra loud. "Who, Bender?"

Who the fuck _else_ would she mean? John scooted out from underneath the truck and gave Rocket a _look._ If the dude wasn't paying him and hadn't put him up the night before, it would have been a lot worse than a look, that was for _fucking_ sure.

Rocket just stretched, pushing his gut out from under his shirt a little farther than usual. His hand drifted down to stroke it, leaving a few greasy stripes among the black hair there.

"You never know, I might just see the mother—pardon, sweetheart, I might see the kid. Never know where he might turn up. Like a bad penny." And Rocket shot a look right back at John. "That's right, he can be tough to pin down." It wasn't a killing look, though. It was a funny cross between amused and maybe a little pissed off, and it made John as uncomfortable as hell. Because if he was even a little wrong about Rocket making a play for his girlfriend, John had no fucking business even looking at him a little off, because the dude was giving him a job and a place to crash when he needed both in the worst way.

"Sweetheart, don't you fret. I'm sure if anyone can do it, it'd be you."

Fuck.

If anyone could do _what? _And what the _fuck_ reason would Claire have for calling Rocket's garage on a Friday night when she was supposed to be having a slumber party, with like, ice cream and movies and shit? The _best _case scenario was that she was trying to check up on him, after all of two hours, and that scenario was far from cool. Like she didn't trust him at _all. _ After everything they'd said.

But otherwise … maybe she just liked playing dirty, after all, and the dirtier the better. Like Rocket was saying last night. He'd thought Rocket was just yanking his chain, but maybe he was playing him. Maybe they both were. That would explain a lot, actually.

In the back of his mind, the chant started up again, not so that John could really hear it, but more that it set a rhythm, a pulse point for his mood. _Stupid, worthless, no good. . . _

It never made any sense for a princess to really _like_ a guy like John Bender, whatever the fuck she said and did with her cashmere and her undies and her . . .

_Fuck._

John shook his head, trying to clear it of that voice and what it said. Maybe she was _worried_ about him. Maybe she was just worried.

Rocket was an excellent guy. He was.

But he was also a kind of perverted guy who John had worked hard to convince that Claire was_ not_ his serious committed girlfriend and that everything was very cool and casual.

_Fuck._

But Rocket was ugly as sin, and he was also an excellent guy. . .who was still on the motherfucking phone with John's girlfriend saying the word,

"Handcuffs?"

On the other hand, John might have to put a socket wrench through Rocket's skull.

"All right, sweetheart, I'll talk to you later. Yeah, if I see him I'll tell him. No, don't worry, I won't tell him _that._"

And with that, he went back into the office, hung up the phone, and reemerged, chuckling.

"So, your not-at-all-serious not-girlfriend says hi," Rocket said, all perfectly casual.

"So I gathered." John did his level best to sound casual, but it sounded more like a feral dog trying to get used to a leash.

"Oh, you _gathered_ that. Well good for you. Did you _gather_ how I didn't tell her you were here, seeing as how apparently you have some reasons for her not wanting her to know that?"

"Yeah, Bender," Gary chimed in, "got another girl meeting you after work? _That'd_ be awkward, huh?"

Rocket snorted. John wasn't sure, but it might have shaken the parts shelves. Something rattled, anyway. "Not as awkward as when they meet you in _front_ of her, eh, Johnny?"

"It's not like that," mumbled John. He _hated_ when anyone called him Johnny. But he hoped, maybe, they'd just let this go and they could get back to work.

Gary wasn't about to let it go, though. John Bender's sometimes girlfriends were a matter of some envy among the older guys John hung out with who had more limited access to high school girls and much worse skin. "So who's it gonna be tonight, Bender? We got a brunette coming round? Seems like I saw you with a blonde last week, Rocket says this chick's a redhead, we got us some Snow White action this evening?" Gary rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "I'll take any spares, just so you know. Share the wealth, man."

He paused a moment.

"They gotta be over sixteen, though."

Rocket ran a hand through his hair, then rested it on his neck, rubbing under the long ponytail he was wearing. "Sixteen'll still get you jail time in Illinois, Gar. You're 21, aintcha?"

"You guys are disgusting," growled Bender.

The two other men almost fell down laughing. "Says _you_," panted Gary.

Faster than you would have thought possible, Rocket was in the office by the staff lockers, pulling out Bender's wallet from his coat pocket. The lockers didn't lock.

"Disgusting," Rocket nodded. "Ain't that the goddamn truth. But let's see what we got here."

And then he started counting pictures. "Seven, eight, nine—Hell, Bender, this one can't be more than fourteen!"

"It's an old _fucking _picture, all right?" John wanted to call Rocket an asshole, but he was his _boss._ This was hell.

"So which one of these is picking you up tonight?"

"No one's picking me up tonight, all right?"

"All right, all right, Mr. Touchypants."

Gary doubled over laughing at that one. John would have too, under different circumstances.

"Hey, Bender, how come my sweetheart isn't in here? I know she's not your girlfriend, and you're not at all serious about her, but I woulda thought she'd at least rate a wallet picture . . ."

"She's more my girlfriend than she is your sweetheart," whispered John, thrusting his hands in his coverall pockets to hide the fists they insisted on making.

"What was that, Johnny? Speak up for the old folks."

"Nothin'." Again with the Johnny. It had a tendency to turn that voice in the back of his head up a couple notches, just hearing someone _else_ call him that. John Bender took a deep breath again, this time grease and dirt free. He could _do_ this. He could hold a job for one fucking day, whatever else was going on or not going on. "I'm just sayin, she hasn't given me her picture. And she's not really one of those girls, anyway. I never _said_ I wasn't ser—_C'mon,_ Rocket."

Rocket looked at John a moment. His eyes narrowed. He liked the kid, but he liked the girl, too. And _he_ knew, although he didn't know if _John_ knew, that a girl like that was taking a hell of a risk on John Bender, and probably not for the reasons John thought. It wasn't because he was dirty, or poor, or any of those things. It was because he was angry and damaged and lovable at the same time, but he had no idea about the third thing, and that was going to fuck him up-hard and up the ass.

And the fact was, that if he wasn't careful, while he was busy not believing he was lovable, John Bender was going to shred her little loving heart.

But as Rocket looked at John Bender and saw the anger and the damage and the clenched fists poorly hidden in his pockets, he also saw the pleading in his eyes. And in this way, the big man became convinced again that the girl's heart wasn't the only one in line for the shredder.

There probably wasn't a lot he could do about it. Hearts shredded. It was what life did to them. But he'd do what he could. First off, get John to a place where he wasn't getting the shit kicked out of him by his asshole old man, which Rocket felt kind of like shit for not having noticed before. And second, see if he could get the kid to pony up a little more where that girl was concerned. But right now, looking at the strain in the kid's face, he decided to give John a break and bust his chops some more about the girl a little later.

"Alright, kids, another hour of grease, and then drinks on Rocket."

He noted how John barely nodded, and slid himself back under the truck.

Rocket shook his head and swallowed another chuckle. If John Bender thought Rocket didn't know how hard he was working to keep himself in check, kid was dead wrong. But it was a skill he needed _a lot_ of work on.

Among other things. Like, it would never occur to the kid, apparently, to ask Rocket calmly what the girl had called about. Or to say something complicated and earth-shattering like, "Hey, lemme talk to her when you're done." Why do any of that when you could stew and ache and shred your heart?

Poor kid. But if Rocket just brought it up, he knew, kid would feel all embarrassed and not cop to having cared in the first place.

Rocket shook his head. If they ended up only _partly_ shredded, it would be a beautiful fucking miracle.

Later found the three of them hunched over in a bar called Benny's. It was plenty dark, and John was happy with it. Usually they'd be at the pool hall, but John had begged off.

"I know so many girls there, they'll be _looking_ for me, it's goddamn Friday. I'm _always_ there on Friday. It's just—I can't do it tonight." The thought of the inevitable string of hurt or confused or pissed off eye-lined eyes made his stomach feel a little off.

Gary had shoved his head a little. "Man, you got problems, don't you?" He turned to Rocket. "Can I have some of this kid's fuckin' problems, please? Preferably the ones with a C-cup?"

Rocket shook his head. "I gotta feeling they're not all as cute as that redhead, am I right, Johnny?"

John shrugged. "Don't call me that, man. That's what—" he trailed off.

John didn't know why the fuck Claire had called Rocket. He'd managed to cool down some by playing back Claire's lips saying sweet things to him on the little video player of his mind. Things like "only you can do that," and "just you and just me." On another channel, he'd kept reminding himself that Rocket had always been a straight-up guy. But he was still not feeling great about it.

He wasn't feeling like he wanted to spill his guts about who called him Johnny and what it meant, how he heard that voice in his head enough already and it fucked with him all the time, tried to take anything good in his life and turn it to shit.

Basically, John Bender was white-knuckling it through the evening, trying to work on not fucking up his life on the off chance that he was wrong and that it wasn't totally fucked up already. Either this effort meant he was making progress, or that he was the biggest fucking idiot in the world.

Either way, he'd be getting so fucked up tonight that he wouldn't have to worry about _why_ he didn't know which way was up. Because he'd be lying on the fucking floor with the world spinning around him. "Jack Daniels. Double. Straight up. Beer chaser."

"Whoa there, pace yourself, knucklehead."

"You here to yank my chain or drink, Rocket?" John grumbled.

"Well, I would've thought that was obvious. I'm here to do both, like always. Never woulda pegged me for _subtle_ that way." And Rocket offered Gary a high five, which he took.

John noted that Rocket still hadn't even offered an explanation of why the hell Claire Standish should be calling him on a Friday night. Which meant either that it was perfectly innocent, which John couldn't really imagine how that could be, or Rocket was just using his newfound power as boss to test John and rub his face in it a little.

But he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of _asking,_ that was for _damn_ sure.

He drank the drinks as soon as they were set up, lighting a cigarette to chase the chaser.

About half an hour and a couple more rounds later, he was on his way to shitfaced but not so bad he couldn't read the number on the back of his hand. It seemed to him he could straighten shit out a little if he just heard her voice and she said _stuff_ to him. He excused himself and went to the back, and before he knew it she was answering.

Her voice sounded all trembly and flirty and pretty and rich. And happy that he'd called. Could you _fake _that? She'd showed herself to be pretty good at faking today, right? But it hadn't worked. He hadn't been faked out. Or she hadn't. Whatever. He had known something was off and he had called her on it and she had come to him all sweet and soft and sexy again.

But now he couldn't see her or what was in her eyes.

John Bender ran his hand through his own hair and wished Claire was there to do it for him. He was always fucking wishing things about her. Be careful what you wish for, he'd told her. Was she still going to wish for him now that she had him?

His jealousy twisted in his gut with the beer and the bourbon and he remembered he hadn't eaten a damn thing since lunch, which he'd barely eaten because he was so worked up about the girl.

Claire was just talking away, telling him about the slumber party, how Bethany and Allison were braiding each other's hair, watching some black-and-white foreign films, and how Brian, lucky fuck that he was, was gonna show up in a few minutes.

Any kid in school would trade places with Brian about then, he figured.

Claire said as much. "Three girls and one guy, right? Jealous?"

She didn't know the half of it. Or maybe she did. _Was she playing him? _Then he realized he wasn't sure she'd said his name the whole conversation.

"Nah, just one girl one guy now," said John, slightly slurring. "Remember? I told you. Can you say the same?"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Of course I can, I said it, remember?"

"Naah, I'm kinda drunk, y'know?"

"Um, yeah, I thought you might be. Are you OK to go home?"

"Thisa quiz?"

"What?"

"C'mon. No home talk. I got a long ways to go 'fore I worry about that. Don'change the subject. How it's just me. What we're talking about. You probably oughta say it again, me being drunk and forgetful. And say my fuckin' name."

"Wait—I think Brian's here, I should go."

"So you won't say it?" _Fuck. _Just a little fucking reassurance, was it so goddamn much? The twisting in his gut was fierce and burning. But she wouldn't fucking say it.

"OK. Shhay this. Who can make you fuckin' come, _Claire_? That won't embarrass you, right, Cherry? No one has to know what you're saying but me. One word answer. Who can make you come against a brick fuckin' wall, Princess?"

"Are you in public?" Her voice sounded nervous.

"Nah, there's no one can hear. Phone's in the back. Tell me who makes you come. No one you know comes _here,_ trust me."

_Trust him._ She shouldn't. He wasn't trustworthy. Apparently neither was she.

He heard her cover the phone with her hand, her voice was muffled. "Just a second, I just—I'll be right back."

"Answer the question, Claire." John thought that phrase sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Just a minute," she whispered.

And then she said,

"Only you, John. Only you can do that to me."

_Then why are you calling Rocket on the phone? _

"I wanna be doing it to you right now. What are you wearing?"

"John! I have company, come on," her voice sounded teasing, but there was a little something else there he couldn't quite identify.

"No, _you_ come on. That's what we're talking about. Aren't you my girlfriend now, Claire? Don't you wanna learn?"

"Um, I said I did."

"Then answer the question, Claire, and touch the clothes as you tell me about them."

"Um, I'm wearing, um—it's silk, and it's a little shirt. And some sweats. Sorry."

"Go on"

"Well, I also have on underwear, they're pink, but they have—they have, Oh, John, you don't want to know this."

"Why the _fuck_ am I not gonna wanna know it, Claire? I thought that was gonna be _mine?_ Don't I get the tour of my _new property?_"

He was spitting her words back at her. They'd sounded kind of sweet when she'd said them. He was pretty sure they didn't sound very sweet right now, though.

"OK, but—John, it's not—they're not,"

"Answer the—"

"_Fine,_" and she sniffled, "they're pink, and they have _Care Bears_ on them, OK? And I just don't think I can do—"

And she broke off. And then John recognized the something else that was with the tease in her voice. And he recognized it as tears. And he closed his own eyes and hell if he wasn't fighting back some of his own. Because he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had just fucked up in a big way.

And in the back of his head, a voice was _still_ saying, "She can talk about handcuffs with _him,_ but she can't talk a little underwear with you?"

But this time, he recognized the voice for who it was.

John Bender took a deep breath, suddenly more sober, but not sober enough to know how to fix it. "Babe, go back to your friends, OK? Just forget about this, OK?"

"I'm sorry, John." Her voice sounded small.

"I'm the one that's fucking sorry, Claire."

But he realized that must have come out wrong when he heard another sniffle.

"I'll do better next time, OK?" Her voice trembled. It sounded small.

"Cherry. _I'm_ the—listen. I gotta go. I just—I gotta go."

Click.

John was way drunker the next time he called.

"Cher?"

"No, it's Allison. Are you drunk?"

"No fuckin' shit. Gimme Claire." John pounded the wall by the phone with the side of his fist.

"She's laughing too hard to come to the phone."

"Is she with a guy?" He pounded harder this time.

"Like, ten. It's crazy."

"Fuck you. Is Johnson there?"

"Yeah, he is. But he just got dared to kiss Bethany, so he can't really come to the phone."

John Bender could hear a lot of laughter coming from his girlfriend's house and in the dim way the whiskey and beer was letting him think, he wondered if it was at him.

"Is he kissing Claire, too?"

"Nah, she's still to busy with the other nine."

Allison giggled and this time John was pretty sure she _was_ laughing at him. Bitch. It wasn't the time. He was fucking hurting and his head was spinning in two directions at once, plus the floor wasn't so steady either. "Gimme Claire! I wanna talk to Claire. C'mon, I gotta tell her something."

"No way."

"Fuck you. I'm her _boyfriend_ now and shit. Din't she tell you? I gotta talk to her."

"Nope. You'll thank me later. Trust me."

John thought maybe he heard his name muffled somewhere in the background.

"DidshetellBethanyaboutme?"

"What?"

"You fuckin'heard me."

"Oops. I gotta go."

John heard another muffled laugh. He took a deep breath and tried to form the words really clearly to get the information he suddenly needed more than anything else. Except maybe another drink. "Allison, did she tell her friend about me? Did she cover up her fuckin' neck?"

"Listen to me. I gotta go. I just—I gotta go. _Do I stutter?_"

"Allison, _fuck_, I kinda hate you right about now." Why did everyone keep saying the same fucking thing, over and over? Things were supposed to be different.

"No, you don't, but you will for sure tomorrow if I put her on the phone with you right now."

John sighed and slumped into the wall. He slumped a little too hard and fell into the phone, dropping the receiver. After fumbling with it for a minute, swearing loudly, he managed to put it back up near his ear.

Sometimes stuff was harder than it looked.

"Allison? Ystillthere?"

"Yeah, I couldn't tear myself away from your eloquence. But I'm going now. I just didn't want to hang up on someone I care about without saying goodbye, because that would be rude and hurtful."

"Allison, c'mon, I'm s'fuckin crazy about her. What the fuck do I do?"

"I don't know, apparently you get hammered and make stupid phone- call decisions. Now leave our girly games alone. I just got dared to put on an entire outfit of pink clothes. I have to concentrate."

Click.

_Fuck._

John stumbled back out to the bar with the dim idea that some more drinks would probably fix things up, but his companions seemed to have other plans. Gary and Rocket took one side each of John and shoved him into a table, putting a glass of water in front of him and telling him to drink.

"You been on the phone?"

John put his head in his hands. "Maybe."

"Idiot."

John nodded.

They sat in silence a few moments. John was working on getting the bar not to spin, which wasn't helping the spinning in his head nearly as much as he'd hoped. He'd thought it'd even the score or something, but no such luck.

"Bender."

He looked bleary-eyed toward Rocket without speaking.

"Bender, you got anything you wanna ask me?"

Stubborn, John shook his head.

"John, John, John." Now Rocket shook _his_ head. "You _sure?_"

"C'mon, man, I think I just kinda fucked something up, I gotta think about it but everything keeps moving. I gotta figure what the fuck to do, and also not kill you and shit. So dy'mind?"

"You don't wanna maybe ask me why on earth your seventeen-year-old, totally casual not girlfriend is calling me on a Friday night?"

"'S'all official now. You fuckin—just me and her. So fuck off already. Boss."

Rocket raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath.

"You wanna know what my ultimate fantasy is, when I meet a pretty young rich girl who's obviously crazy about some kid I hang with? The fantasy that came true today?"

John felt things explode inside his head and lunged at Rocket, but Gary just held him back. Gary wasn't a small guy himself, and John was plenty drunk.

Rocket continued as if nothing had happened. "What I hope, in that fuckin' situation, what I hope in my dark, slimy heart of hearts, is that she will open her plump, pretty, pussy-saying pink lips…"

"I'm gonna _end_ you, man."

". . . and tell her daddy to bring his fancy car to Rocket's Auto Repair and Body Shop. And that, my friend, is the dream that came true today," and he reached out and swatted John in the head, "Ya dumb punk, what the hell were you thinking? I mean, _look _at me!"

Gary chuckled as John buried his head in his hands a moment, then straightened slightly. He put his hands through his hair, looked at Rocket, and then put his head down.

In a minute, John's entire body was shaking with laughter.

"Hey, that's my line," drawled Rocket.

"Maybe he's having some kind of a fit," Gary suggested. "Hey, Bender, have some water."

John shook his head. "I lost my fuckin' mind." He took a big swig of water. "I swear to God, I can handle fourteen of them, but just the one girl's gonna be the end of me."

Rocket and Gary both clapped him on the shoulder. Then they launched into an impromptu version of "Chuck E's in love," but singing "Johnny" and swaying back in forth in the booth, concert style.

They looked appalling. John choked on his water, laughing.

"All right, all right. Very funny. But I was just a _total prick_ to Claire, y'know. If you knew what the hell was going on, you coulda said something before, insteada just watching me squirm."

Nodding, Rocket sighed. "Sorry, man, I didn't know you ponied up. I thought you were still on the fence. I mean, you didn't tell her you were workin' at the shop, either, so I just figured you were trying to keep stuff separate for the other cuties. I was just tryin' to—give you a nudge in the right direction. Girl's a sweetheart. How bad'ya fuck up?"

John tried to go over it in his mind, but while he was more sober now than he'd been on the phone, he'd been drunk for a while. It was a little hazy.

"I'm kind of a nasty fuck. I think I mighta made her cry-and tell me about her underwear. I dunno, I tried to make her say shit. Then she must've been upset cause her friend wouldn't let her talk to me. "

Rocket let out a low whistle, and John slammed his hands on the table, rattling the glasses. "Christ, is it always _like_ this? Because I feel sick half the time, and then my head fuckin' spins, and I wanna kill a lot more people than usual, which for me is saying something. And I'm much more of a prick to the girl I really dig than I am to anyone else."

"Candy," said Gary knowledgeably. "Give her candy."

"Did that this morning for last night's fuck-up."

"Flowers or a teddy."

John looked skeptical.

"Not underwear," said his friends in unison.

"Oh, and another thing. Try _not _fucking up."

* * *

**Reviewers will get flowers or a teddy, but not underwear. And a teaser for the next chapter! Thanks for all who read. I totally love it that you read this fic even when I fail at update pace and pinky swear fulfillment.**


	26. Chapter 25

**Happy New Year Y'all. More to come in by midnight if unexpected houseguests do not arrive; tomorrow if they do (it was originally 1 chapter, about 8K words, written, not edited) Don't blame any of this on my poor beta-I knew I'd be down to the wire on this one. Thanks for your patience.**

**

* * *

**

Just what I've been through  
Is nothing like what I'm going to.

-Violent Femmes

* * *

Waiting on the paperwork for her father's car, Claire found herself gazing at a slightly grubby pink plush character sprawling face down on Rocket's desk. A sheaf of yellow receipts was splayed across one of its paws. _What on earth,_ she found herself wondering, _it's more out of place than I am._ She remembered the last time she had mentioned Care Bears in conversation and felt herself flush. She was probably pinker than the bear.

At last, Rocket hung up the phone and turned toward her. "Oh! Sweetheart. Look at that. I forgot all about that. That's for you."

"Um, what?"

Rocket reached across the desk and grabbed a some big metal thing with some tubes or wires sticking out of it. He held it out to her. "This carburetor. I didn't know what to get you, but this just has 'Claire Standish' written all over it."

Claire held out a manicured finger to touch it. It was pointy and a little greasy. "Really?" she asked, looking up shyly and biting her lip.

"Don't tell me you already have one!" Rocket looked aghast.

Claire was pretty sure he wasn't serious, but it was so hard to tell, and she just wasn't used to this kind of a person at all. "Well," she said, "I don't think so. I mean, I don't have a car. But I'm sure it will come in handy when I do. . ."

She smiled, still a little confused. It was good, though, to get to know new kinds of people.

Looking up at Rocket, Claire was somewhat relieved to see his shoulders and belly shaking. Words to "The Night Before Christmas" flitted through her mind, but she worked to put them from her thoughts. Although Rocket _was _kind of a jolly old elf. With dirty fingernails and probably an even dirtier mind.

"Oh, my sweet Jesus. You two—you are the most gullible pair of kids that—sweet thing, take a look at my big old messy desk. What is the one thing there that looks, say, a tad bit out of place."

Claire scanned the desk and tried hard not to freeze as she saw the word "Trojan" on a box under a tangle of wires. Her gaze settled on the pink plush leg and arm she'd been eyeing before. She probably should have guessed that—but it could just as easily have belonged to his niece or his girlfriend or something.

"Um, the—Care Bear? You, um, have a Care Bear for me?" Had he been with John last night? Had John _told _him? To describe her complexion as fuchsia was by now probably understating it.

Rocket's belly shook even harder. "Oh, dear holy—heck. That look on your face—the tragedy is I don't have a camera down there somewhere. Sweet girl, that there thing—you have no idea what we had to go through last night to get it. Seems one John Bender had some reason to think you'd be mad at him. We suggested he buy you a gift, but he was concerned that he'd already bought you a gift that day for the last time he'd fu—messed up."

Claire smiled. "He bought me chocolates."

"Yeah, well. I don't know how he landed on a Care Bear, and he wouldn't say, but sweetheart, he was _sold_ on that. We were all drunk enough we weren't driving and Johnny would _not_ come home until we had found one. Which might not be so hard under normal circumstances—say, before midnight. But just think, for a minute, how much fun it is for three guys, one of 'em me, to go into every gas station store and the all night Safeway asking for a pink Care Bear."

Rocket suddenly started doing an astonishingly good imitation of a drunk John. "'You call yourself a store. You _aspire_ to having a toy aisle for the amusement of children such as myself, and you stock—_green_ Care Bears? And Strawberry Shortcake? What the _hell_ is a kid like me going to do with Strawberry Goddamn Shortcake, snort it to get high? This stuff smells like crap, do you really want to take responsibility for children getting high off of fake strawberry drug dolls? Might as well just line up the whipped cream next to the superheros, too, while you're at it,' and sweetheart, if I hadn't dragged him out, he would have done a whippet right there in front of the store manager."

Although she was laughing so hard she could barely speak, Claire found time to wonder what a whippet was, but then thought she might be better off not knowing. "I wish you'd had a camera," she said, wiping her eyes.

"Oh, me too." Rocket shook his head, still chuckling at the memory. "Thank flying fuck for Riteaid, that's all I—oh, shit, sweetheart, I mean—"

He held his hands out wide. "Hell, what can I say? I'm a rude, crude, man. Pardon my French."

Claire smiled. "Ça ne fait rien."

"Ooh-la-la," Rocket replied in a ridiculous Pepé le Pew accent. His eyebrows writhed like two giant caterpillars until Claire and Rocket both cracked up.

Still giggling, Claire picked up the Care Bear. She knew which one it was. Did John? It seemed unlikely he had a lot to choose from. Would John have gotten her Lovealot bear on purpose? When he was drunk? She shook her head. Was she insane?

But she asked anyway. "Um, how did he choose this one?" _John Bender wants to declare his love for me and so has drawn on his vast knowledge of Care Bear color imagery to do so. _Claire silently told herself to get a grip.

Rocket shrugged. "He wanted a pink one. Said it would go with your room."

Nodding, Claire gave it a little pat. That made sense. Still, she was all fluttery. John had given her Lovealot Bear. John Bender.

She closed her eyes a minute to enjoy once more the image of a hammered John demanding Lovealot from nervous clerks sometime after midnight. Loud, and funny, and scary at the same time. "I do wish I had seen that," Claire said softly.

"I wish you had too. Chances are good Johnny's ok with you not seeing it, though." Snort.

Smiling to herself, Claire absently stroked the greasy fur. It was better that it was greasy. She loved it. And John couldn't be _that_ disappointed in her underwear if he was going to—commemorate them in this way. It was a lot of trouble to go to just to make fun of someone.

Although, he _was_ John Bender. Which probably meant he was making fun of her. In addition to loud and funny and scary, he could be so sweet and mean at the same time.

The thought shot a wave of desire through her, _right_ through her, and she shook her head. More than a little messed up what the combination did to her. But she really missed him, it was kind of pathetic.

She turned back to Rocket, whose mouth was doing everything it could to stop from smiling. It made his whole face twitch, which in turn made Claire giggle. "What?"

"Facial tic. Ignore it."

"Um," Claire toyed nervously with the Care Bear in her hands. "So, do you know why he thought I was mad?"

"I'm guessing cause he called you when he was drunk and all kinds of jealous and was a total dickhead." Rocket held up his hands again. "Wild guess."

Claire frowned slightly, still confused by the way that conversation had gone. "Drunk, sure, but—I'm sure he wouldn't think I'd get mad just cause he got drunk on a Friday night. I mean, it's not like I think I'm dating Donny Osmond or something.

Snort from across the room. "Good you've got that straight in your head. Sure you're getting the better end of that deal, anyway."

"Right. Creepy. I would never date Donny Osmond." Claire blushed again. "Although John did tell me he'd marry me if we could do it in Utah so he wouldn't have to marry just one girl. So yeah, John was a dickhead last night but, um, it's not like that's unusual."

"Don't settle for that, Claire." Rocket's face was suddenly serious, his thick brow dark and thundery, and he pointed his black-smudged finger at her as he spoke. Claire jumped back a little in her chair. "Kid's great, you know I think so, but don't you settle for any kind of serious bullshit. Kid's coming from a bad place, people learn what they're taught even when they don't want to. You follow?"

Tears pricked in Claire's eyes as she bit her lip a little raw. She did follow. Too well. "Yeah, but—John teasing me, or even yelling at me—it's not the same as what his father does. And—what you said—it's what he thinks too, and I just—I don't think it's fair that we have to—put him in that box, expect him to live down to where he comes from. People rise up from bad circumstances all the time. I don't want people thinking I'll automatically be like where I come from either. I think if you decide to change, you can, and I need a lot of patience, too…"

And then the tears were spilling, and then Claire Standish was hugging a Care Bear in an auto body shop on the wrong side of Shermer, Illinois while an awkward, somewhat panicked-looking giant rubbed her back.

"Ssh, 'course sweetheart. I'm not saying don't be patient with the kid. I'm just saying, don't settle for anyone treating you bad—no matter where they come from. And if it happens, you call the fucker on it." He studied Claire's face a minute, and then smiled, and with a little touch of evil. But not entirely un-nice evil, Claire thought. "But Claire, if there's some part of you that likes it, the mean and the bad and the hurt, that's not a crime."

"Um, what?" Claire busied herself with the Care Bear again.

"If not, pardon the suggestion. If so—nothing wrong with that, trust me, but—keep it straight in your head."

Claire couldn't meet his eyes. Suddenly she wanted to run very fast and very far, but she also wanted to stay right where she was, because there certainly wasn't anyone else she knew that might be able to talk to her like this. There were things that worried her about herself. She knew she loved John's sweet side, and she loved his funny side. But she also knew that wasn't all she was into. She did like the bite. She did.

Rocket continued. "I know you're a little young for this, but you might want to think about calling the games you play games up front, and putting them in a safe place."

Claire's face crumpled a little more. "What do you mean, games?"

Rocket rubbed his face again. The phone rang. "Ask me again later," and he launched into a discussion of rust treatments Claire could in no way follow.

When Rocket was off the phone, Claire backpedaled. "So, um anyway, why would John be jealous last night? Are you sure that was it?" She'd been _positive _he was mad because she wouldn't talk dirty to him now that she was his girlfriend. _I'm the one that's fucking sorry, Claire._ His voice had sounded so awful when he'd said that. She didn't want him to be sorry he called. She didn't want him to be sorry to have her as a girlfriend. She'd even started practicing saying…stuff… that morning in the mirror with a hairbrush as a pretend phone. She shook her head. What was happening to her?

"I was at a sleepover with two girlfriends—and Brian was over." She looked up. "You remember Brian, right? Physics of pool? John Bender, jealous of Brian—with me? That I, with him? That doesn't make any sense."

"More sense than what he was really jealous of." Rocket let loose with a powerful, tool-shuddering snort. "Sweetheart, you've got that boy spinning so hard, he can't see two feet in front of him. And I'm afraid I didn't help things. I mean—I was trying, but I was giving him crap and—oh, hell, you and I are going to be braiding each other's hair next." The large man rubbed his large hands over his face. "I shouldn't do this. Poor kid."

But Claire was having none of _that._ "Wait, Rocket, you can't stop now. You don't start something like that and not finish it, I don't care how much one hundred percent hunk of man you are!"

Rocket shot her a look. "Laying it on a little thick, there, aren't you, miss?" He shook his head. "Should have the place wired for sound, too," he muttered, "That'd work out well on playback."

Claire shrugged and looked a little self-conscious, but kept right on asking. "Who was John jealous of? I mean, he's the one with the wallet full of girls—_you_ know. But we—I thought we kind of, you know, worked that out. Do you," she took a deep breath, "I mean, I'm supposed to be his girlfriend now. Does he really think I'd be cheating on, like, the first _day?_"

"Nail polish comes next," muttered Rocket, shaggy head still shaking. Sighing, he pointed down to the small grease stain on the Care Bear. "Now, see, sweet thing, that's where old Rocket almost gutted the poor little bear with that there carburetor, just by grabbing it too hard and dragging it heavy across the desk." He sighed and shoved his hands through his hair, they got a little stuck. "What I mean to say is, I might not be the world's subtlest guy."

Working with all her heart and mind on her poker face, Claire commented, "Really?"

Rocket hid his head in mock shame. "I confess it's true." He looked up. "And the combination of John, jealousy, and Jack Daniels was not a healthy one and I further confess I do not come down on underage drinking like I probably should. In fact, I do the buying—not that Bender doesn't have more fake ID's than the Spy who Loved Me. But sweetheart, the boy was so turned around, he was jealous of _me_ and you—thank you kindly for swallowing that laugh but I swear I let one rip myself—" and he snorted again at the memory—"when I pointed out the true nature of our current relationship," he said, handing her the paperwork on her father's car.

"But I'm afraid before that," Rocket said, mock sadly, but not entirely mock, Claire thought, "I might have led him on a little. It was too damn absurd, don't argue, we know it is, but I was yanking his chain, hoping to sort of—give him a little nudge in your direction. Cause I saw how it hurt, you looking at those other girls down the pool hall. And I didn't want to see him doing you wrong, cause you're so sweet on him, and sweet _to_ him, and Johnny could really use some of that. But we might say he's lacking the right guidance."

Claire folded the paper and smiled shyly. "Well, thanks for trying to, um, guide him towards me, I guess. And I—" she gestured with the folded yellow page—"I don't think this is the extent of our relationship, I mean—" she blushed, "I mean, _I_ want to think of you, as, you know, a friend." She put the paper in her purse and looked down, embarrassed. "I don't think that's absurd."

Then Rocket picked up her hand and kissed the top of it. "Well, I couldn't be more honored if Dolly Parton herself deigned to piss in my crapper."

When she had finished laughing, Claire continued. "I wanted to invite you to play poker tonight—I got us all a motel room, well, mostly I got it for John because I didn't want him to have to go home. But I told him it was for the poker game so he wouldn't, you know, think I felt sorry for him or something. It's just, um, at the Motel 8 by the highway. Nothing fancy. I didn't want him to feel—strange, or kept, or something."

Rocket roared. "Sweetheart, I think you put 'got a room' in any kind of sentence with yourself and there's no way in hell John Bender's going to be thinking about anything but—" he cleared his throat, "poker, of course. Deal me in. This I gotta see."

And just like that, Claire's face was back to bright red again. "It's not like—I mean, I don't, you know, do—_that's_ one of the things John has to be patient for."

The tools on the wall shook this time in time with Rocket's belly. "That doesn't come as a shock, sweetheart. Patience is a virtue." He shook some more. "Not one I personally possess in that department, but I like to think of John getting some…patience."

He looked back to Claire more seriously. "Listen. What we were saying before. I told you to ask me again."

Without looking at him, Claire whispered, "Pretend I did."

"Do you know what I'm talking about?"

Claire shook her head.

"You're curious?"

Claire nodded, then shook her head vigorously.

"Right. Well, on the off chance you are, and I tell you something, if you tell anyone you heard it from me, my life could well be over, ok? Boy's known to carry a knife."

"He wouldn't."

"You're a minor. Could be I'm corrupting you. Your lips are sealed."

"Ok."

"So listen. Am I right in thinking I'm not the only one who's been—pushing John a little in your direction with a few head games, yanking the old jealousy chain?"

Still looking down, Claire nodded. But then she looked up. "I _had_ to. He said he never got jealous, and I wanted to _die_ from jealous. And I liked him so much I was just going to be one of fourteen, it's like I _have_ to be with him, and I just—I wanted it to go both ways."

Rocket nodded. "Understood. And from where I'm sitting, looks to me like John might indulge in a few headgames himself from time to time."

Claire rolled her eyes. "It's a calling." She shrugged. "But I might be worse. It's all," she swallowed, "it's all I've ever really seen, you know? And it worked. And I think—I think we both maybe kind of like it, but then sometimes it goes too far, and like, we're not sure when we're playing and when it's serious, sometimes."

"And that, my dear, is why God invented safewords." Rocket rummaged around in his drawer a minute. "Trust games can be even more fun than you know, but you gotta know when you're playing. Listen. I know what I'm talking about. You've shown you trust John Bender in about fifteen ridiculously sweet and possibly delusional ways since you've been here just this morning. John can't trust even me as far as he can throw me, and I'm a big pussycat of a guy."

Claire's smile was wide. "You totally are."

"Agreed. So first off, if you decide to expand your game horizons—Johnny boy works on trusting you first. Promise? I think you're both gonna like to go both ways, like you said, and I know you don't know what I'm talking about, but I think you'll catch on fast. You didn't hear it from me, you didn't get these from me, but turns out I have a little present for you, too."

Rocket had never seen eyes get so wide as the girl's sitting opposite him as he held out his gift. But now, he kept his face serious with little effort. "No one has to know, and you never have to do any of this stuff. Other hand, doesn't mean you're weird, doesn't mean you're a freak if you do. But I'm gonna tell you a few things, and you just—you know, pull 'em out when you want to. A little bit can go a long way—just like chocolate syrup on vanilla ice cream."

To her shock, Claire burst out laughing yet again. "Or a cherry," she said.

Then Rocket was laughing, too. "Or a goddamn cherry. Or a fucking banana split, pardon my French again. Ok. First lesson, 'bananas.' If anything I say makes you so uncomfortable you really want me to stop, you just say 'bananas' and I stop talking, no questions asked."

After a very enlightening ten or fifteen minutes, during which Claire never stopped getting redder, but also never spoke of bananas, she got up to go. "God, I can't believe John's been in detention all day and I've been here talking to you about …that."

"What Johnny doesn't know won't hurt him, remember. And it's not gonna hurt him anyway. If he knew—and was thinking straight—he'd thank me. But for _sure_ he's not thinking straight, ok?"

Nodding, Claire turned to the door. "Brian's bringing him lunch. I would, but that principal has some weird thing about John and me. That guy is _so mean_ to him, and I know John's not even telling me everything. I just _hate_ the thought of John going from home to _that_." She sighed and her shoulders slumped a little. "We're trying to do something—and I was all excited about it, but now I'm all worried it's lame or dumb, and I don't know if it's going to work."

Rocket smiled. "Sweetheart. So's you know, John's crashing with me, past few nights. Long as he wants. I feel kinda bad I didn't see some stuff I shoulda, sooner."

For quite a few minutes after the redhead had left, Rocket sat rubbing his cheek where she'd kissed it, throwing her arms around his neck and then turning to beam at him once more on her way out. "Fuck me I don't have a camera down here," he grumbled, "kid's face seeing that kiss'd be worth the goddamn moon."

* * *

**reviewers get a fucking banana split, pardon my French, and everyone gets to play poker.**


	27. Chapter 26

**I had another version of this written, and then I thought I could do it better. So, I think, I did, with the help of my fantabulous beta Black Francine. The Breakfast Club belongs to someone else, hopefully someone related to the late John Hughes. Rocket is his own man, really.  
**

* * *

I'm wait wait wait  
w-wait wait  
waiting

-Violent Femmes

* * *

Truly, the way Allison Reynolds could shuffle and bridge and fan a deck of cards was a thing of beauty and worthy of all the attention the world could bestow on it. But it had only half of John Bender's. If that.

No doubt he was glad as hell to see these kids. Sure, he'd seen them all week in school and out, but it was definitely cool to see them _really_ out of school, like, on a weekend. So that they'd actually chosen to hang out together, which he didn't think was really going to happen, not even when he left detention the week before a diamond earring richer.

It was funny how often he'd liked being wrong recently.

Kenny was there, and he'd always liked Kenny. Plus it kind of made it more real that it wasn't just the five of them. Like they weren't afraid they'd fall apart if they got near each others' friends.

Maybe it was also one baby step closer to Claire actually admitting to _her_ friends they were together. If they still were after his colossal assholity from the night before.

Probably if she showed up, he'd find out.

His fingers drummed a little beat on the table. He checked the clock by the bed, only to learn it was five minutes after the last time he'd checked it. He looked up and noticed Brian Johnson's eyes on him, _staring_ eyes, so he made bug-eyes right back and Johnson looked down quick enough.

Time just moved so _goddamn_ slow today. He'd thought it was because of detention, but even doing some of his favorite stuff—hanging out, playing cards, shooting the shit, having a beer—barely seemed to help.

John looked down. His hand was still drumming. He slapped it hard on the brown formica table they sat around and felt eyes on him. He did another little drum number in time to whatever crappy song was on the motel room radio—Thompson Twins or some shit—just so it looked like he meant to be doing it.

Allison dealt again. She had the killer poker face, no surprise. It was partly that she made everything look so significant, you couldn't tell when something actually was. And then even when she had a shit hand, she'd make a pair of threes sound like a goddamn revelation.

Johnson of course had a face that flashed the value of his cards in enormous neon letters over his head, so that was helpful. Andy was a little better, but not much. Kenny could hold his own, as he could with most things in life. Usually so could John, at least in poker, but he was off his game. He just couldn't concentrate.

Another five minutes passed. He felt itchy. Which made no sense because he'd showered, done his laundry at Woolworth's again—at least as far as a clean shirt and shorts.

John lit another cigarette, offered the pack around. Kenny had one with him, and they cracked the door and window so the air wouldn't get too gross. In case any teen princesses showed up who might not dig the romance of the smoke-filled room. He'd also nixed the cigar idea, much as he could go for that with some cards. He just had a feeling it might not be Claire's scene.

And after all, she'd paid for the room.

The room was a definite plus, too—big with not just a bed but a sofa and some pretty comfy chairs, and even some folding ones in the closet. Beer fridge. No fathers or principals anywhere in sight.

John felt himself relax a fraction into the nicotine. It was definitely cool to be out of that fuckhole of a school. What a long, hellish, depressing day. It was like Dick Vernon had some kind of satanic pipeline to every one of John's inner wounds and had been opening them with knives to dump salt in them for hours on end. Prick. _Prick._

Thank _God_ no one was around to hear some of that shit Vernon had said. That would be _the end_. Even though no one being around was what gave Dick the power to say the worst of it.

John crushed a Budweiser can in his hand so that some of the beer spilled out on the table. He gestured to Allison, then to the beer on the table. "Look, I poured you a drink."

"Ha. Ha," she said, but then she actually bent over to the pool of beer and slurped some of it from the table.

This made Bender smile. "Good to see you're not letting the pretty interfere with the disgusting and crazy. Gotta hang on to yourself, y'know?"

"Hey!" Andy started getting all huffy.

But Allison whipped around. "Do you disagree? With what part?"

Andy put his hands up. "Um, mostly, that you're not disgusting."

"You don't agree that I'm not disgusting?"

"Yes! I mean, wait, no, I don't agree that you are. Were?"

She folded her arms. "So you find drinking beer from a tabletop attractive?"

"Um, not as cute as when you smile?"

"But are you glad I don't let the 'pretty' interfere with the 'crazy?'" The quotes around the words were really loud and meaningful somehow. "Or do you disagree that you should hang on to yourself?"

"No! I mean, yes on the—" Andy looked a little panicked. "Al, come on—"

She turned back to Bender triumphantly. "Exactly! Come on! Come on!" The last words sounded a little sing-songy.

And John was right there with her. In a way, everything was easy with Allison. She and John just had a kind of rhythm, even when she was busting his balls. And now he had a better beat to drum to. So he sang a little, too, "we've really got a good thing go-o-ing," because it was true, actually.

Allison started singing louder, getting up from the table. John shoved his chair back and stood up too, so he and Allison were jamming, their heads together and playing air guitar. "Ya better hang on to yourse-e-elf!" Which was also fucking true. The question was which parts to hang on to tightest and which to let go a little.

But mostly it just felt good to cut up some. He was so goddamn sore from sitting all day.

Looking around at the others, Allison did her little stomping gesture with her hands out, insistently, with the "come on" of the chorus. Brian started getting into it a little, and even Andy started joining in, even though they clearly didn't know the song. Kenny filled in on table drum.

Brian as always was happy to be included in anything. Andy actually looked happy that John was dancing with his girl. In fact, despite the fact that she'd just put him on the spot, the kid made pussywhipped look like the best drug ever. This was extra nauseating because John was pretty sure he was on his way right there and he hoped to _hell_ he could hide it a little better than _that._

You better hang on to yourse-e-elf. Or at least look like you were.

Andy, suddenly serious, grabbed Allison's hand and said, "You know, you kinda helped me find a self to hang on to."

Allison sat back down next to him, grinning like she'd won the lottery.

She'd also won the last five poker hands.

It was Andy's deal. And in general, he seemed to be dealing with everything totally fine, weird and challenging girlfriend and all. It was like Allison really was the missing piece to the Andrew puzzle, and all that other shit that was eating him so bad last Saturday just kind of rolled off his back now. Shit just wasn't getting to him.

Like how he didn't seem bothered at all that John and Allison had the connection they did, how they were more like each other in some ways. Andy just seemed to take it in stride. It even made him happy.

Bender ran his hand through his hair a little, scratching his head. Why the hell wouldn't it make the kid happy? The girl who'd clearly been the most miserable of anyone was now happier and had friends, and the kid who was crazy into her was happy about anything that made her happy. Made total sense.

But even though it would never have bothered John before this week, the way Claire and Andy were easy with each other—they were probably the most alike, when you thought about it—it bugged him out.

If he'd been a girl, he could have talked to Andy about that stuff, maybe, asked how you could be that relaxed and worked up about girl at the same time. If there were any tricks to just going with it.

Sometimes John got a sense of what that might be like.

For example, when Claire was actually _with_ him.

She made him feel so fucking good when she wasn't making him feel like shit or he wasn't doing the same thing to her. But now, she wasn't here. And he just felt—off. It didn't feel easy, nothing did. He didn't know what to expect despite how they worked stuff out in that classroom and left it all good between them.

Because he fucked it up, that was why. It was just what he did.

At least Allison could get the time moving.

Cards. Who the fuck knew what was even in his hand? "Call." Why not? Acting chickenshit didn't get you anywhere. It was easy, he figured, to have a poker face if couldn't keep track of 5 card stud. Turns out he actually won that hand. Ace in the hole. Very cool. He probably should have noticed that.

Bender needed to keep an eye on the good things, and there were, he knew, a lot of them. Job, place to crash. Brian Johnson giving Carl a lunch for him. Pudding.

Claire if she ever showed up.

He knew what was going on with him, too. He'd ditched his father for a couple days, but between his own fuck-ups and Vernon's hammering it into him all day long that those fuck-ups were only going to get worse and worse, he had that feeling that he should be on his guard, not get too attached to the good stuff. When in fact, it was all around him.

Such as, it was definitely cool to be hosting. It was kind of like the week before when he'd tried to show these lame-ass people how to party, take care of them a little—but this time, not in detention, which was obviously better. His idea, his room—at least kind of. So he'd gotten Rocket to front him a little money, so he could buy some beers and some wine coolers because he figured that if Claire drank, she'd be hitting the Bartles and James.

Not that she was here.

_Yet_, he told himself.

He knew she was coming. She'd gotten the goddamn room, right? Maybe she'd gotten cold feet, though—gone too far on with her own lip gloss promises. Or maybe he'd pushed her too far.

He had no idea, again, what his down card was, and he was too embarrassed to look.

If Claire would just show up and smile at him and show she wasn't too pissed off, he'd be able to pay better attention. Attention to important stuff like Allison's shuffling and ridiculous lovesick Andy watching her and the fucking hysterical things that could happen to Brian Johnson's face when he laughed.

"So," John said to Allison, "you big into Bowie?" In part, he was hoping to distract her a little from her poker hand. Mostly, he was distracting himself from the stupid molasses rate of Claireless time.

Her eyes narrowed a little. "Isn't everyone?"

John stopped to consider. "Well, maybe everyone's into 'Let's Dance' or 'Modern Love.'" He looked around. "Andrew? How do you feel about Mr. Bowie's latest venture in recording art?"

"Um, I like it, I guess. It's fun at parties."

John nodded. "Astute analysis from the man in tights."

Andy flipped him off, but in a casual, friendly way. "You miss hitting the floor, man?"

Bender shrugged. "Nah, I had enough of that with Vernon today, but thanks for asking."

"What the fuck, he hit you?" John noticed how Andy's hands fisted on the table. Which was kind of a nice thing, really, when you thought about it.

"Nah. Made me do push-ups at his goddamn feet. Prick."

"Can he do that?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Magic?" Bender got up from the table again, shoving it a little too hard and spilling a little more beer. Fuck. He just needed to stretch a minute. "Hell, let's drop it. I spent enough time with that dickwad already today to ruin a good poker game by talking about him. And if I miss him too much, I got the next couple of months to look forward to." He wanted a cigarette but didn't want to smoke the room out.

In case Claire came soon.

He went for another beer instead, but made a note to drink it slow since the whole shitfaced-in-fifteen-minutes thing hadn't really worked well the night before.

"Anyway," he said, cracking the beer and chugging a third of it before he remembered his resolution from several seconds before, "I meant, obviously, astute analysis from the man with the _required uniform_." He bowed his head. "I can be," he paused, he looked up at Andy with a smirk, "so insensitive."

And even Andy couldn't keep a straight face.

"But the question still stands. Is everyone into David Bowie? Mr. Johnson. Have you considered the merits of the serious moonlight?"

Brian had been talking in a low voice to Kenny and turned, confused. "Um—why is the moonlight serious?"

John crossed his arms. "Young man, have you learned nothing in physics class?"

"Astronomy," mumbled Brian.

"What?"

"Um, Astronomy, would be—where you'd learn about moons, probably. And, um, moonlight. Well, the light could be Physics. Except that it isn't really, light _from_ the moon, it's a reflection, so I don't think—"

". . .That you actually live on this planet. And that may be true. You're excused. Kenny?"

Kenny smiled and stretched his head first to one side, then the other, "This is ground control to Major Tom . . . "

"Hmm." John stroked an imaginary beard. "I'm forced to conclude based on our small sample size that while everyone who actually resides on this planet may like one or two of the most famous songs, not everyone is _into_ Bowie."

"What about you?" Allison asked.

"_Ziggy Stardust. Low."_

Allison nodded. "_Hunky Dory_."

"What, 'Kooks'? You? God, who ever woulda pegged that one?"

Brian made a choking sound, but Allison ignored John and started singing quietly to Andy about whether he would stay in a lovers' story. John felt a little sick. He hoped again that he and Claire 1) still existed and 2) never pulled that kind of shit. At least not in front of other people.

In private, a little whispering about a lovers' story might not be so bad.

Andy kissed his girlfriend, shook his head at Bender in surprise. "Bowie, huh? What about the heavy metal vomit parties?"

John shrugged. "I'm down with those too. What about this. What's in your tape deck at home, right now?"

"Chopin."

John, Kenny, and Andrew looked at Brian in a kind of horror. "_Chopin?_"

"Yeah. Um, you know. The Nocturnes."

"He wrote about wet dreams?"

Andy cracked up as Brian turned scarlet, then sort of giggled. "No. They're for piano. Piano compositions."

"So why did he name them after wet dreams? You know what? Skip it. Fellow earth-dwellers, what about you?"

Andy thought a minute. "Aerosmith. _Toys in the Attic._"

Kenny high-fived him. "Hey, me too, man."

Within seconds John, Andy, and Kenny were on their chairs serenading Brian Johnson in unison, "You ain't seen nothing till you're down on a muffin then you're sure to be changing your ways," and wailing on their air guitars, laughing.

Brian turned to Allison and whispered behind his hand, "I don't know about you, but I think that song might have some kind of sexual subtext."

There was a knock on the door, and the whole room yelled, "Walk this way!" as it opened.

Finally.

Finally, Rocket had come. Not exactly what John was hoping for. But really, he figured, a pretty good second best, and he jumped down on from the chair to greet his friend. He didn't remember inviting him, but he was glad he did. There were a lot of details from the night before that were hazy.

Without missing a beat, the big man strutted in time to the Aerosmith chorus. He carried a big boom box over his shoulder, which he put down at Bender's feet right as the song said "Just gimme a kiss," and he grabbed John and kissed him on the lips with a big smacking sound. "Like this!"

Everyone cracked up. As John wiped his mouth—twice—Brian waved excitedly, "Hey, Rocket!"

Rocket saluted, "Hey, Rocket Scientist! How's it hangin'?"

"How's what hanging?"

Rocket let loose with a trademark snort. The pictures on the walls rattled. John exchanged an amused look with Andy, then remembered he was kind of the host.

"So, you remember Kenny, and that's Allison and Andy over there. And this, this is my pool buddy Rocket, a local psychopath."

"Pool buddy?" Rocket jabbed him in the ribs. "Show some respect."

"Sorry, I mean, a local psychopath and my boss. Hey, that means that kiss was sexual harassment! I can sue your ass. Allison, grab me some black chips. I'm good for them now!"

Rocket whacked John in the head and grumbled, "I'll give you harassment, kid." But Brian got up and clapped John on the arm. He didn't want to make a big deal about it if Bender didn't, but he wanted him to know that he had noticed about the job.

He met John's eyes and smiled shyly. John clapped his arm back, nodded a fraction of an inch, and asked loudly, "So, stud, how was Bethany? Slip her some tongue?"

"Well, um—you know, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Brian mumbled as he turned red again.

Rocket and John turned to each other and said, in total unison, "I wouldn't know about that," and made as if to punch each other. Rocket then took John's shoulder and moved him a little to the side of everyone else.

His face was totally serious. John got worried. "Listen, man. Our girlfriend isn't going to be able to make it."

John felt his heart sink like a rock, his face falling right along with it. And really, there wasn't thing one he could do to hide it. He was so disappointed, he hardly registered the "our" before the word "girlfriend." He couldn't imagine what was going to happen to the time now.

"She did want me to give you this."

Rocket's big hand, less greasy than it had been earlier but still not exactly what you'd call clean, reached into his jacket pocket, held open John's hand, and shoved something into it.

John looked down at his hand. It held one of those stinky little dolls he'd found everywhere the night before while he was looking for those goddamn bears. This one had pink hair and little red fruit all over its dress. Cherries. Of course.

Rocket spoke seriously. "John, it's Cherry Cuddler." He grabbed John's shirt collar. "Dude, it's the _Party Pleaser_ edition. I think that means she's really serious about us."

John looked up in horror, and at the exact same second, Rocket ducked down. John was blinded by a white flash, and he heard the sound of his friends laughing, followed by a kind of mechanical whirring.

Rocket let out a whoop. "Finally!"

And finally, John looked up to see Claire Standish in the doorway, wearing a short skirt under her coat and his scarf and holding a Polaroid camera. She had her hand over her mouth like she was trying not to die laughing.

"ANOTHER!" shouted Rocket.

Claire pulled out the first picture and clicked the button again, and John was back to reeling from the flash. And the shock. And the by now totally familiar experience of being elated and pissed off at the same time.

"Jesus Christ," he managed.

"Oh, I almost forgot, man, Cherry Cuddler comes with a little goose," and Rocket put this tiny plastic goose covered with colored presents in John's hand on top of the doll, and while John was distracted with that, reached around to grab his ass.

John heard Andy clapping loudly.

"There's fucking LIMITS, Rocket!" He yelled and went for the throat, but at the last minute poked Rocket in the gut with his other hand. Rocket put him in a headlock and started giving him a nuggie.

John was glad of the added support, actually, because if he hadn't had something sturdy to lean on, he might have fallen over.

"I guess I'm interrupting something?"

Claire was leaning against the closed door. She looked a little hesitant but plenty pleased with herself, and John flashed back again to when she'd come to find him in the closet the week before.

Rocket let John go with a little shove toward the front of the room.

"Well, actually," said John, "you're right on cue, Cherry. Dudes? We stopped halfway through our last number." So Andy, Kenny, and now Rocket were back on air guitar as John strutted over to Claire. He couldn't help it. Set up or not, he felt high to see her again, and the song gave him an excuse for the ridiculous bounce in his step.

"School girl sweetie with a sassy kinda classy," he pointed at her in time to the music, "little skirt climbing way up the knee," and John's hand was on her leg, pushing the little skirt up as she hit at him and called him a pervert.

This was so much more like it. The other guys kept singing and then John whipped around to Brian.

Brian rolled his eyes, but got up and sang, or at least mumbled. "I was a high school loser, never made it with a lady, till the boys told me something I missed," and even did a little dance step.

"There ya go," said Andy, slapping him on the back. "I knew it couldn't be all Chopin all the time."

"Brahams. Is on the other side. But yeah." He scratched his head a little nervously. "I do listen to the radio, you know, for some popular culture."

Claire for sure didn't look like the Aerosmith type, but then she was more full of surprises than Dick Vernon was full of shit, so it shouldn't have been that much of a shock when she started singing along. Still, John Bender found it wholly distracting. Her lips moved a lot when she mouthed the words.

She'd changed it up a little. Gone back to the beginning.

"It only started with a little kiss," and she kissed him on the neck in the same place she had a week ago. "Like this," she whispered, and looked up at John.

"Johnny, you two-timing me?" called out Rocket.

John flipped off his boss without turning around. Claire looked so happy to see him he felt like he might pass out from relief.

He opened the door and started walking her out of it. "Excuse us a minute. I've got to have a very serious talk about the Strawberry Shortcake line of playthings with Claire, here." And then he was out the door, and he had his hand on _her_ ass, squeezing, and said, "Comes with a goose, huh?" And she giggled and smacked his arm. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her into him, rocking back and forth but just gently, and whispered, "I'll give you 'Party Pleaser.' Jesus, Claire, why are you trying to kill me?"

She bit her lip and smiled. "It's so much fun, plus you kind of deserve it."

John frowned. "Were you really mad? Are you still mad?"

Claire nodded and said no at the same time. Of course.

"Seriously, Cherry? I'll get better at stuff."

"That's just what I was going to say."

John ran his hands through her hair, it was soft like she hadn't put a lot of goo in it, and Claire had her hands in his hair too. She kissed his neck again. It was one of their things. They had things. John felt his shoulders getting lighter and lighter.

"I love the Care Bear, John."

"I love the Care Bear, too. The one on your underwear. Can you take them off so I can see it up close?"

"Gross. No."

"What part is gross?"

"Well, both the part that I might still be wearing the same underwear, and the part that I might take them off."

"Good to know."

"Underwear stay on."

"I thought you said that was gross? I'm against gross. I think they should come off."

"John!"

"Seriously. Whatever you say."

"John?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you're ever going to kiss me?"

"Yeah, definitely."

"Anytime soon?"

"I'm not done looking at you yet."

It was really true. He'd just fucking missed her. He'd missed looking at her. It had only been a day. He'd lost his mind, treated her bad, and she was here. And now she was smiling at him in that way that said she was _right there_ with him. He was totally happy, it felt weird.

He brushed hair back from her face, even though that was usually her move. He shook his head. "No way it's been just one day. I swear it's been six months since I saw you." Her face shifted. He knew that look. "And don't look at me like that. I'm not fucking cute, OK?"

"John, that's way not true. You got me a Care Bear. You own a Strawberry Shortcake doll. You're adorable."

"Is that why you put up with my shit?"

"Duh, John Bender."

John made as if to kiss her, and she fluttered her eyes closed. Instead he tickled her waist. Two could play at the waiting game. She opened her eyes, incredulous.

He smirked, his hands still on her waist. "So, you double teaming me with Rocket, now, or what?"

Claire nodded. "Uh-huh." She had that cat-who-ate-the-canary look again, if it was a delicious fucking canary and the cat was totally shameless. John made a resolution to put a different expression on her face by the end of the night. Clothes or no clothes, if she could say anything at all it would be limited to "please" and his goddamn name.

He bent into her ear. "We might have to do something about that smug little smirk of yours later, Claire."

She pushed him back and talked in _his_ ear. "John, my smirk might be many things, but since it involves my mouth, it's definitely not little."

Claire's ear talking about her mouth was definitely very effective. It made John want to tell her that her mouth was not the only thing around that wasn't little. The memory of the sound of her voice on the phone as he'd been demanding her to talk dirty to him held him back.

In fact, even though not kissing her right away was a little bit of payback for making _him_ wait tonight, on top of all the waiting he was doing what with the virgin girlfriend and all, that wasn't the whole reason. Part of it was to let her know, again, that that side of things was not all he was after.

"We better get back inside," he said. "People came all this way to hang out."

Claire nodded. Then suddenly she looked a little nervous. Actually, a lot nervous. This made John nervous.

"Cherry? Any other surprises I should know about?"

She nodded again.

"The good kind, like the other night when you weren't wearing a bra?"

Claire tried to look offended but couldn't pull it off. Instead, it looked like she was blushing. "Maybe some of them?"

The waiting to kiss her might not work out.

He found his hand on her thigh again. "Can I unwrap one of them now? I had a really long day, Cherry."

"I don't know, you seem to want to wait…our friends…."

John buried his face in her neck. Claire smelled fantastic. She smelled expensive, too. "Did I mention how much I missed you?" He noticed she hadn't moved his hand. He moved it up a little farther, then stopped. She shook her head no.

"No you want me to move my hand away, or no I didn't tell you I missed you?"

She looked at him and her eyes had that haunted, raw look John really kind of loved.

"No, you didn't tell me," she whispered.

His hand slowly moved farther up her leg as he said, "I missed the living fuck out of you, Claire Standish."

"Sweet talker."

"Just think of me as Swearsalot Bear."

That got a giggle. "John?" She moved his hand, but then ran her finger down his shirt. Slowly.

"Yeah?" He was so outplayed.

"The next time you ask me what I'm wearing, it's possible I'll have a better answer for you." She sounded kind of shy. John remembered her first real kiss had been Monday.

"Cher, you don't have to—" Suddenly he felt like shit. Really, really like shit. He backed off and put one hand over his face and rubbed. "You never have to—"

But then her hand was on his sleeve, tugging on it. "John?"

"Yeah." He pushed his hair back and risked a glance at Claire. She looked sweet and teasing and dying to be kissed.

"C'mere, Claire. I'm such an idiot."

"Wait, I'm not done talking. I think it's really important that we talk a lot in these few moments we have alone." She turned the corner of her lip up and folded her arms over her chest.

OK. Fine. John Bender folded his own arms and looked down at her, trying to look stern. But it felt so good to be playing any kind of game at all with her, he could feel himself doing a terrible job. "I'm waiting, Claire." He tapped his finger on his elbow.

She smiled like she was trying not to, too. "Well, yesterday—_before_ you called me, I went shopping."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Remember yesterday when you were so mad at me? Well, during that time, I went to the payphone and ordered something from a mail-order place. Bethany couldn't even believe it existed. I showed her the catalog picture in the hall at school. I could feel you glaring at me—it was kinda hot, actually. She couldn't believe I was getting it, it cost so much money." She reached up and tapped at the diamond in his ear. "Remember how I said I had plans for you?"

John nodded dumbly.

"This was one of those plans."

John Bender cleared his throat. "So, can I ask you now?"

"Well, you could, but—" Claire shrugged. "Our friends are waiting."

"What friends? I'm kind of a loner."

"Liar." She swatted him. "Gives you something to look forward to later."

"I wasn't having a problem with looking forward to later, Claire." He might die from this, but at least it was a fun way to go.

"Huh. Me either."

Fuck it. As it turned out, the motel was also made of brick, and Claire Standish looked plenty good against this wall, too. He still didn't kiss her, though. First he just pinned her there, with his arms and eyes, and gave her body enough time to remember exactly what went on the last time it had been pinned against brick. He saw it happen, her eyes glazed and her head leaned back a little. Then he licked her ear and slowly breathed, "Maybe our friends will think it's better when they wait." He felt her panting beneath him—and then he straightened up. "Like I do. Waiting makes everything better. C'mon. Let's go play poker."

They made their entrance with Claire swatting John's back and arm and calling him a brat.

Brian Johnson rolled his eyes. "Things change so much in a week."

Everyone was back seated around the table, the boom box was set up, too. Rocket was showing off his shuffling skills and despite his thick hands, he gave Allison a run for her money.

He cut, fanned, and started dealing. "So," Rocket asked, one bushy eyebrow up, "we playing strip?"

"NO!"

Everyone in the room turned toward John Bender in more than a little shock.

"Now who's a prude?" asked Allison, a slow smile creeping across her face.

Claire shrugged. "I'm still wearing my coat, scarf, stocking, boots—I should have an advantage. Except I've never really played . . . does jewelry count in strip poker?"

"We're _playing_ for _money!_" insisted John, panicked. No way was Andy, or Kenny, or Rocket, or Brian getting a look at Claire with her shirt off before he did. Or at the same time. Whatever. He shot a pleading look at Rocket. "I need the money, is all. I bought the beer and shit."

"Don't worry, kid. No way old Rocket's gonna get caught in a hotel room with booze and underage naked kids. I'm only in for a few hands anyway."

After they'd played a few rounds, John noticed Claire was pretty dramatically losing every hand. He was paying attention more, and his cards were kind of shit, but he was still winning.

He leaned over to Claire and whispered, "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?" She looked at him sideways. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, what do you mean?" Brian asked. He turned to Rocket. "Do you know what he means? Cause I don't know what he means. Hey, ow! Andy, that hurt!"

But John couldn't be sure if that was a case of poker-face Johnson strikes again, or Brian just babbling like usual, because when they switched to Texas hold-em, Claire won a few rounds right away. Then Allison, Brian, and then Rocket won big. John began regretting he'd said anything, because he sure as hell could've used the money

They switched back to Five-Card Stud, and John had a good leg up to a straight flush. No one else looked like they had anything, but they all must have gotten cocky, because they were betting like crazy. John raised with each card, cause he was really getting them—but everyone else raised too, and then they folded one by one.

It was down to him and Rocket, who probably should have folded first. John won big, the biggest hand of the night.

"Boss, are you playing me?"

"Boss?" asked Claire, suddenly. "That's a funny nickname."

Brian made what should have been a broad balletic parody of a hidden gesture, pointing to Rocket behind his thin hand and mouthing the words, "He's John's boss," subtle as a freight train.

Shit. John hadn't told her. He'd wanted to tell her, he'd just been worried she wouldn't really like it, think it was beneath her. Then, of course, he'd been worried she was beneath Rocket.

"You got a job?" Claire asked, big eyes on him.

John started to try to explain, but instead, he had a face full of redhead. She'd gotten up behind him and grabbed him in a big Claire-scented hug, kissing him on the cheek and neck in front of other people and breathing into his ear how proud she was.

The ear-breathing/talking thing was very effective. She went back to her own seat a minute later. Bender let his head roll back. That had felt so many different kinds of good, he couldn't really count them, but some of them weren't stopping as soon as they should.

"I've got a job," said Kenny.

"I'm looking," added Brian.

"I _gave_ him the job," finished Rocket.

Claire stuck her tongue out at all of them.

"Yeah," said John, and so did he. He also shifted in his chair a couple of times and started thinking how he might be able to get people to leave.

Rocket reached over and switched the tapes. John couldn't even say what had been playing—which was really strange for him. But he sure as hell heard the next song loud and clear. He shot Rocket a _look._

Rocket kept a studiously straight face. That in itself was a bad sign. John looked around slowly at everyone else. They seemed strangely quiet.

The words to the song—it was probably some kind of sign of mental illness when you heard songs and thought they were talking about you.

But this one? This one wasn't.

"The wai-a-aiting is the hardest part."

It sure as hell is _not _the hardest part_._ John leaned back in his chair again with a heavy sigh.

The sound of Andrew Clark laughing into his hand brought him sitting up straight again. It made a kind of whistling noise. Brian Johnson was scarlet behind his own hand. Rocket's face was expressionless, but his whole body was shaking, while Kenny was shaking his head.

Claire and Allison both looked like they might die.

"Wait, did I say that out loud?"

And then everyone was cracking up. John too. But he also knew the rest of the song, and despite that being totally funny, and totally true, he took Claire's hand so that she'd know that when Tom Petty was singing about how he used to have a lot of girlfriends and he felt different now, John Bender knew where he was coming from.

Because, yeah, he was probably just a little deeper in than Clark, actually, when it came right down to it.

Rocket started the deal, and John was happy for the distraction. You couldn't spend much time looking at Rocket and stay turned on for long, he figured, especially the way he frowned and stuck out his big bottom lip when he concentrated.

He turned and saw Claire was doing almost exactly the same thing. Which was weird. But also cuter.

So much for the distraction idea.

But before John could go to far down that road, he heard the signature chords of another song, one that hit way closer to home. In fact, it was from the album that was on _his_ turntable at home, he was pretty sure—this must be some kind greatest hits or something.

"We got something, we both know it and we don't talk much about it." Right. He took his hand back from Claire's and reached for a cigarette. The song put him in kind of a dark place.

Actually, from what he could remember from the video, it put Tom Petty in kind of a dark place, too. Like in an alley. Leaning against a brick wall.

Weird.

But it was a good song, no doubt. Kenny was tapping in time, and John found he was too.

And so was Andy.

And Allison.

And _Brian._

And then they were all singing, too. Looking at him and singing, but serious at the same time. It was much weirder than Claire and Rocket both pushing their lips out or Claire and Tom Petty both liking to lean on brick. It was like they'd all synchronized around his own theme song or something.

Claire wasn't singing, but she was mouthing the words.

Was this supposed to be funny or something? How the song matched his life? How he'd been living like a refugee all week? Everyone was singing at him except Rocket, who actually looked totally serious for a minute, not weird or funny at all, just kind of old and a little sad.

John kicked at a chair leg. "Jesus, is this some kind of conspiracy?"

Silence.

Which Brian broke. "Well, yeah, it is. But. Not necessarily a bad conspiracy. As conspiracies go."

John looked at Claire. "Do you know anything about this?"

He was totally expecting a denial, but she nodded. "Please don't be mad," she whispered.

John felt very nervous, suddenly.

Rocket stood up from the table, swatted John in the head, and held out a hand to Claire. She put her face up, smiled weakly, and held out her hand, which he kissed. "Whenever you need a rude fat man, sweetheart, you don't gotta go looking far." He turned to the rest of the group and saluted. "Rocket's gotta blast off now, but you kids have given me hope for the future and several beers besides. For that," he bowed, "I am forever grateful."

When he'd gone, the table was quiet again. Brian whispered to Kenny, who flipped the tape and pushed play.

John noticed Allison was now holding Claire's hand.

And then the voices started.

Brian's voice, surprisingly clear and strong, insisting he'd done as much to ruin the library as anyone else. Vernon's condescending tone to the kid, shooting him down. Brian's insistence, with a voice a little more shaken, that if anyone was going to be punished, it should be him, because he was the one of all of them that should have known better. Brian's threat to drop out of his academic clubs; Vernon's sneer.

Andrew Clark confessing to having broken the glass in the window. Vernon arguing that he couldn't have. Vernon explaining how he should be more careful with his fratboy junior dares. Because if that story had been true, he would have been kicked off the wrestling team. His father wouldn't like that very much, and neither would the college scouts. Whereas instead, if loser scum who were trying to muscle in on the prom queen had done it, they could be kicked out of school.

You could hear Andy swallow hard, and then say —but _I_ did it. I yelled and broke the glass. I have witnesses. You want off the team? Vernon asked. He sounded nervous.

"No," Andy swallowed again. "But if John Bender gets booted, in fact if John Bender gets more than two more Saturdays, I'm confessing to the school board, and telling them you wouldn't listen."

John sat in stunned silence. He couldn't look at Brian or Andy.

Allison's turn almost made him laugh. He could picture her so well. Her voice sounded tense and naughty and kind of triumphant at the same time, just like it had the first time he'd heard her talk. It was the perfect tone to use if you were going to say, "There's nothing I didn't do last Saturday. I need as much detention as John has. Maybe more. My shrink says it's really important for me to take responsibility for my actions. Personally. He thinks you should supervise my detention personally, like you do John Bender's. I can't be trusted. You shouldn't let me out of your sight. Ever."

He met her eyes for a split second. She pointed her chin in that way.

John threw a bag of dope and a package of papers at Kenny and motioned for him to start rolling. He drummed another little rift on the brown table, noticing this time how the edge was sharp and bit into his hands.

Then Claire's voice came on. At first you couldn't hear what she was saying. Then she shifted or something, and Vernon was clear as crystal. His voice was dripping with sympathy, telling her how he knew what a creep Bender was, and how he'd do anything in his power to keep her safe from that.

John Bender's hands stopped drumming and became fists.

This was nightmare territory. He knew, obviously, Vernon had said stuff like that to her, even before, but hearing it was worse.

Why had they done this? Why had they taped this? It was nice, obviously, their trying to stick up for him. It meant a hell of a lot, more than he'd be able to say. But it also sucked being the kid that needed sticking up for. And it _more_ than sucked listening to someone talk him down to Claire like that. He didn't think she needed more help in that direction.

And then Claire was explaining how they were all such good friends now, and even though that was true, he didn't want Claire using the word _friend_ to describe him. He wanted her declaring her consuming passion or some shit.

But the tone in Vernon's voice when he asked her what her game was made his fists clench tighter. His eyes were closed but he didn't need them to see the nervous look on Claire's face. He could almost feel Allison's hand gripping hers tighter.

_You don't fool me, Standish, I've seen your kind sashay in and out of here for years._

John pushed up from the table. Everything on it shook. Allison grabbed the pack of cards from the path of a traveling pool of beer. John walked over to the bathroom door and looked at it like its days might be numbered.

He could hear the tremble in Claire's voice as she tried to play to Vernon's imaginary good side, the pretend side that would have really gotten kids in trouble if they'd let Bender take their punishment, instead of egging them on, pleading with them, even, to do so.

_You're dumber than you look. Hell, you're dumber than that punk John Bender looks. _

John put his hands on either side of the bathroom door frame and leaned into it. He didn't really want to tear the motel room apart. He should tell them to turn it off, he should look at them, they were clearly trying to help him. But he couldn't do anything except stand there and, with every single ounce of his being, try not to hit everything in sight. But the voice, this time, not one in his head, kept talking.

_I'd like to be around for the moment you figure out that a guy like_ _John Bender could only ever be toying with a nice girl like you. That scum like that just wants to pick you up and get you a little dirty before dropping you again—just to prove he can. I'd like to see that._

Good-bye door.

Luckily, Kenny, Andy, and even Brian were already holding John Bender back by the time Claire's tear-filled voice on the tape whisper, "I don't think that's your business," because otherwise, the sink would have been gone too, at least from the wall.

The sound of her trying to stand up to what the voices in her head were already saying, only now it was the principal of her goddamn high school, felt like a knife in the chest.

John knew what that was like, and he knew how well it could work out.

_But, Claire, I like to watch…_

And then John was screaming "FUCK" so loudly it was shaking the pictures on the walls, really hard this time. He was dimly aware Claire was sort of cowering in her seat, but he couldn't see past it, couldn't see past the rage.

"I'll fucking KILL him! I'll KILL HIM!"

John felt a hand over his mouth, he felt something getting pushed through the hand. It was a cigarette filter, probably the one he'd never lit. He spat it out, struggling to get out of their grasp, but Andy seemed to really know what he was doing, and Kenny was no slacker either.

But if he didn't hit something, more, faster, harder, he was going to explode.

He somehow managed to pry the hand away from his mouth, "HOW COULD YOU SIT THERE AND LET HIM TALK TO YOU THAT WAY?"

Then he heard Andy hissing in his ear, "Don't you take this out on her, man, or I'll have to start hurting you instead of keeping you from hurting yourself."

And then Brian was in his face, "You know better than _anyone_ it's not a matter of _letting._"

"I don't _care,_ _no one's_ fucking talking to her like that. I will fucking END HIM! And, another thing, _Claire,_ why the fuck didn't you tell me what was going on? Do you think I wouldn't have had your back? Why the fuck would you put yourself in that position? You fucking _know_ what he's like!"

Allison's voice sounded like a vice tightening. "She did it _because_ she knows what he's like, you _dildo._"

"What, because obviously she must like being treated like shit or she wouldn't be with me?"

"John, stop."

Claire's voice was very quiet. John had already learned, that was when you had to pay attention the most.

"I didn't want him talking to you that way, either. I mean, the way he talks to you makes me sick, ever since Saturday."

"It makes us _all_ sick," added Brian.

"Yeah, it wasn't about the detention. It was about trying to catch him on tape," explained Andy.

"We knew we didn't even know the worst of it," Claire said softly. "I _know_ you're used to not telling. But that's not why I didn't tell you. I didn't tell you so you wouldn't get yourself into more trouble over me."

"And so you wouldn't do anything to mess up the next phase," hissed Allison, eyes still narrowed.

John felt Andy's arms tighten on him as Kenny, who so far had been silent, went over to his bag. He took a stack of tapes out and put them on the table, wiping it off first with a towel Brian threw him from the bathroom.

"So these guys asked me if I could help bug the library and the closet where that asshole kept you last week. Then your girlfriend bribed Carl to let me and Johnson into the school Friday night to set it up. We went through the ceiling. Then Carl let me in yesterday morning to switch the tapes. And yeah, Claire paid him, but I think he woulda done it for free, actually."

"That shit's on fucking _tape,_ now? I can't take this. Don't you see, I _seriously_ cannot take this. Are you guys planning a little listening party for that, too? Huh? You've got a soundtrack planned for that, too?"

John knew they were doing something for him, sticking their necks out, trying to help. On some level, he knew that. But it was masked by the shame and humiliation he felt at anyone—_anyone—_knowing the shit he'd had to take.

Kenny took a step back. "I didn't hear much, man. I promise. Just enough to see which feed and to change the tapes."

Then Claire looked at him. Her voice was still quiet. "We only played what we knew was being recorded, when we were talking. We wouldn't do that to you. We weren't spying on _you._ We're your friends, John."

Andy's hands were actually now more soothing than harsh against his shoulders and back. "They're your tapes, man. That was always clear. You can do whatever you want with them—take them to the school board, take them to court."

"Well, they might not be admissible in court because of surveillance laws but—"

"Brian!" Claire's voice had tears in it again. Fuck. _FUCK. _ John hated that, so hard. He hated that he kept putting tears in her voice.

It turned out Brian was still talking. "But, like I was saying, you could use them as leverage. You can make it so he never does that to you, or anyone, again. If you want."

"Blackmail, or Vernongate. Secret tapes. It's like we gave you Deep Throat," said Allison, with a smile.

Silence.

And then suddenly John was laughing. He felt it in his gut first, fighting to get out, and then his chest and shoulders, and by the time it got out his mouth, it was really loud.

He held up his hands to show he was done hitting things. Which was a good thing, because Andy was choking, too, completely caught between being horrified and laughing hysterically.

The confused look on Brian Johnson's face made them both laugh harder, and even Kenny, who was not a loud dude, was shaking silently in a chair, eyes streaming.

Allison's poker face made it impossible to tell whether she knew what she'd said or not. Which made it even funnier.

John couldn't begin to meet Claire's eye, and it might be a little while, too. Because with all the laughter easing the tension inside him, making room for things other than rage and shame, he realized, again, that she'd worked hard to do something really nice for him. Sick and misguided and manipulative, maybe, but really nice, too. And he'd yelled at her for it.

He put his hands on his knees. "OK. I'll take that cigarette now. And Kenny? I'll take that joint. And Brian? I'll take that beer. And Claire? Thanks. Seriously. Thank you all. Fuck you all, but thank you all."

He darted a look at Allison, "But I gotta say, if you would've given me deep throat? I woulda noticed. And it wouldn't have taken me that long to say thanks, either."

* * *

**Me either, John. Thanks for all your patience during my health-related hiatus. For the international and/or younger set: Deep Throat was the name given by the editor of the Washington Post newspaper to the anonymous source that brought down the Nixon presidency (aka Watergate scandal). He named it after a famous x-rated film.**

**Also for the younger set: the music referenced is owned by the chapter's musical guests. The Thompson Twins or whoever probably still own whatever that song was, too.**** The songs, if you want to google them or read their lyrics, are "Hang on to Yourself," "Walk This Way," "The Waiting" (a shout-out to the many who had a hard time doing so), and "Refugee". Glee versions no doubt forthcoming.  
**

**Reviewers get Swearsalot bear, but all readers get the Strawberry Shortcake scented plaything of their choice. Next installment will be to "Really Good Feelings" but as usual, I will recap any plot that sneaks in when I update this one. Happy new year.  
**


	28. Chapter 27

**I thought in the end there was too much plot here so-I hope the other feelings aren't too good for any T readers. Feel free to let me know. **

* * *

...candy for candy coated tongue

-The Violent Femmes

* * *

John looked around the room, at the empty pizza boxes and beer cans, at the bathroom door leaning up against a wall. At the bed. At anything but the eyes of the girl sitting across from him.

He hadn't ended up getting ripped, though he'd had the impulse. They'd all had fun, plenty of fun, but the kids had figured it was time to go. Somewhat to his own shock, John had tried to get them to stay longer.

He was afraid to be alone with her.

Too much. It was too much—what she'd done, and planned, and maybe heard.

And knowing that was maybe one thing, but seeing it there, bare and raw in front of him with no one to hide behind, nowhere and nothing—and no one to cut up, cut down, cut into—it was too much.

He was chicken. Stupid chickenshit sloth.

The way she was just right there, to his touch—he wanted it to back off. He wished he'd taken the skin offer. Skin was great. No one should ever see him this naked, and he had all his clothes on.

"So, Cherry. Any secret tapes running I should know about?"

Silence.

"You not gonna answer?" He sounded like such an asshole, he wanted to smack himself for talking to her that way.

"If you'd look at me, you'd see I shook my head no, rocket scientist."

Look at her. OK.

She was seated across from him at the now beer-covered, smeared, and ash-strewn table. She'd wiped off a little section and rested her elbow on it to prop up her chin. She was looking at him a little dreamily, her eyes half closed, head tilted to one side, covering the bruise on her neck that was still there, he knew, even though she'd been wearing his scarf all night to hide it.

"Look, can we not talk about this right now?" asked John, sounding petulant and pissed off and, as far as he could tell, not like a person anyone in their right mind would want to come near, much less sleep in the same bed with.

He didn't know why she liked him, why she put up with him, why she did all that for him. To him. He wasn't sure which.

All he knew was, even though a lot of people would say he was a pretty out-of-control guy, there had been a lot of control he'd had—over his feelings, maybe, and over other people's feelings. Like, he could make them laugh, or make them feel like shit, and not feel that bad about it.

She'd taken all that away from him.

Claire smiled a slow smile and ran a finger up and down her arm. John knew that skin, it was incredibly soft to touch. Why he'd turned down a skin-only deal was beyond him. He just wanted to feel more of it. On his. On him. Now.

"You're the one who's the big fan of talking tonight, Bender," Claire said slowly, wrapping her lips around every word a little extra.

She sounded like she might be a fan of skin herself, right about now.

Her eye makeup was a little smudged again, which was somehow sexy, like when her hair was messy. She was calling him Bender, but her eyes looked hungry and a little sleepy. John felt that warmth spreading in spite of himself.

He threw cold water on it. Bender. Right. Cool. Kind of mean. Girls dug that shit. This one did, too.

"Oh, yeah?" Her little shirt was girly, buttoned up. Too buttoned up. She should be naked, he should be clothed. Something to even the score. John was aware his thoughts were a little dark, but what the fuck did you expect when you started taping someone behind his back? "Well, what did you have in mind then, Princess?"

Claire shrugged, over-casual. "Dessert?"

_That's right. Eat me. You naked, me in my boots. _

Claire was rummaging through her bag. "I brought the rest of those chocolates. But I thought after the other day, I wouldn't try sharing them."

"You can share your cherry with me any time, Claire."

"Gross pig."

"There's nothing gross about the human body, Miss Standish," scolded John, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms.

"I know, I was talking about _pigs,_" sniffed Claire. She took out a candy and held it out to him, the chocolate melting slightly between her thumb and forefinger.

He'd melt too, if he wasn't careful. He knew how that went. He'd get all mushy between those same fingers, Claire twisting them in his guts and heart, all with a little smirk on her face.

He'd get mushy in his feelings, that is, and hard in his goddamn jeans, and probably nowhere to go with that. Because face it, this girl was a first-class tease, no matter what she'd said or done in the classroom the other day. But he was done thinking about that—thinking about that had made him _ache._

Time to start thinking about how to get those lips around his cock. At the very least.

That or get the fuck out of here for a while.

Thing was, there was a chocolate-covered cherry. Thing was, he'd missed the living fuck out of this girl, and he'd felt like _hell_ that he'd made her feel bad, feel used. Thing was, the way the ugly parts of him were thinking about her made him want to punch things. Like himself. Like he basically wanted to take himself _out_ right now.

Vernon would be so psyched. John doing to himself what the principal could never quite manage. Vernon's efforts to get him to give up on himself and on Claire were now on _tape,_ of course.

But it all came back to the chocolate-covered cherry. He had such a thing for candy when it got near this girl. Really, lip-gloss and lifesavers, ice-cream and root beer—right down to Claire looking at him and rolling her eyes, calling him a sweet-talker—candy was one of their things, the things they had.

And that part of it was _so_ fucking sweet, it made him ache in a whole different way. Like they were just kids. Like they were sweethearts.

John looked up at the ceiling, struggling. "Hmm," he drawled, tilting his chair back on its legs. "I guess I could try one."

He let the chair fall forward and watched as Claire held out the candy toward him slowly, and then returned it just as slowly toward her own mouth. She held it between her teeth.

Wow. Sweethearts with a hell of a twist there. OK, so he was really fucking hard now.

Apparently he was also easy.

"Well, don't be rude, Miss Standish. Bring it over."

Gooey candy center. Fine, he was just like that.

Claire leaned over toward him and brought her mouth close to his, but not so close that he didn't need to reach up.

He did. Like she had bait.

He bit down and so did she, the gooey cherry and chocolate and syrup spilling into his mouth and her mouth, down the sides of each.

He was so turned on, he wouldn't have been able to breathe even without the mouth full of cherry. Cherries.

He felt the syrup drip down his lip, and then he felt her hand move. It was on the side of his mouth, slicking in the syrup, so he grabbed it and took it in his mouth, her mouth, their mouth, and they were licking that finger, tongues and chocolate and cherry and finger. Somewhere the back of his mind registered that she got up from her chair, but their mouths stayed connected.

He brought a hand up to her face—what the hell, he'd get sticky too.

She broke the kiss and took his finger, first just the tip and then sucking, swirling in her sticky mouth. Her big lips were smeared with red and chocolate and swollen from him, and plumped around his finger like that, they were, once again, transcending porn.

His other hand reached out, found some leg, pulled it toward him. She pulled her finger from his mouth, put it round his hand and pulled his finger slowly from between her lips. John watched. He knew his mouth was hanging open but he wasn't able to fix it. Claire's mouth was a little open too as she looked down at his finger, still slick from candy and cherry sweetness.

He was alone in a motel room with Claire fucking Standish covered with chocolate and cherry juice, and he'd been too wrapped up in brooding to properly appreciate that fact until now.

Claire was about to call him on it, too. He could tell by the way she held on to his hand as she moved forward until she was standing over him, straddling his lap.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk some more?" she asked sweetly, stroking his hand in both of hers. "Or maybe I could get our friends back here?"

John tugged at her leg so she half fell into his lap.

She felt really, really fucking good there. He pressed her down a little harder. _Really_ good. "I thought you got I wasn't into sharing those chocolates, Claire."

"I don't know," she said, looking down at him, then dropping her face to his as she licked a trail of syrup up his chin. "It is a little messy, but you seem to like it OK," her voice was breathy, though, and it hitched as she shifted in his lap.

"Oh, God," she gasped, as he thrust up against her. That was a little better. Talking shouldn't be so easy for her.

"Better than OK, Claire. Do I need to go over some of the signs of my liking it better than OK?"

She whimpered. Score. Score one for the burnout. She backed up a little, typical Claire, going just a little bit too far, then backing off, then covering for it.

This time, though, the covering was _awesome. _She put his finger into her mouth again. Slowly, tongue outside the mouth now, up and down. She nipped at the tip of his index finger. Every touch of her tongue, he felt _everywhere. _It was incredible that she would just _do_ stuff to him. He thought he might come in his jeans. Again.

"God, John, somehow your hand got so sticky. You'll leave sticky fingerprints."

"Thought you weren't worried about my leaving marks on your skin." He reached up with his other hand and stroked the bruise on her neck. "In fact, I could swear you liked that, Cherry. I could swear," he stroked a little harder, "it made you moan."

"It's not my skin I was worried about, John." Sure she sounded breathy, but she also sounded so much in control. Which he found both frustrating and kind of hot at the same time.

"Huh?" John was going to ask, but then her mouth was all over his hand again, sucking.

This must have been one of the things she was studying up on. It was like she'd been taking notes during their classroom lesson.

It was beyond intense. Like, blowjob intense. She held his hand in both of hers and stroked with her fingers while she licked and sucked and grazed with her teeth each one of his fingers, slowly in turn.

It was all he could do to keep from slamming her down and just grinding her against him till he came, for all the 20 seconds he felt like it might take. But he wouldn't. She seemed like she had plans. Far be it from John to interfere with any of Claire's virgin porn plans. He'd learned. The hard way.

He felt his eyes roll up and his head loll back. "Jesus fucking Christ, Claire."

"You're not still angry?" she asked, a little waver in her voice.

So that was her game. Seduction, then the old bait and switch. Well, it was a little fucked up, but as games go, he'd have to say he was in favor.

Still.

"Standish, if being angry at you meant I couldn't be turned on by you, we'd have a really different kind of relationship."

He felt her chuckle. In fact, like, every single thing she was doing right now, he felt it in his pants.

But then her voice was soft and small and failing to be brave. That was killer. That made him melt like he'd known would fucking happen, but this wasn't even in a candy-coated-drugstore-chocolate way. This was in the way that made him want to beg, please let me roll around at your feet like a lapdog and also beat the shit out of anyone who makes you feel scared.

Present company included.

Killer.

And in that killer voice, she asked, "What kind of relationship do we have, John?"

The stuff of nightmares.

"I thought you didn't want to talk?"

"Just while we're waiting for your hand to dry."

He noticed that her hand was shaking a little. Who the fuck was she and what the fuck was she doing with him? Couldn't he give her just a little of what she wanted?

"Our relationship?" He put his hand up to her cheek and stroked it gently. Compromise. "Well, I think it could be like this. I think it could be long, and hard, and a little achy, but we could really have some fun with it."

Claire tried to get mad, but ended up giggling and biting him on the chin. "You are such a pig."

"What? I thought it was really touching."

"Well, then I guess I don't have to bother to touch it later," she sighed airily, and shoved herself off of his lap.

"Tease." He got up and stalked after her, backing her toward the bed. That had brought a little of that dark back again. She really did want all the power?

"Oh, _me_ a tease, Mr. 'Everything is so much better when I don't kiss my girlfriend for hours and beg our friends to stay _even longer_?'"

"Yeah, _you_ a tease, Miss 'I haven't seen my _boyfriend_ in a day and a half so I better make sure to spend some extra time plotting with _his boss._'"

They were right at the edge of the bed, teetering into dark territory. But then, suddenly, John noticed that Claire looked fucking adorable. Cute, and playful, and the tiniest bit shy. She was _playing. _And somehow John forgot about everything else for a second and just put his arms around her and kissed her. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Right.

It really did feel so good to have an armful of Standish. It really did feel so good to have those lips open up to his, just sweetly. To have her sigh a little, like the kissing made her so happy. So he let it stay with the sweet rather than take it back up to the hot—just to make up for the tease, and the temper, and the door, and the brooding, and to show her that it wasn't like he wasn't into kissing her. Not at all.

In fact, he was so into kissing her, he could feel that incredible sweet gooeyness start to overtake him. And even though it felt good, he had to keep it at bay. She had too much on him. She'd just turn away and tease him again, get high on her power. He _knew_ she would—she'd been spying.

Dark clouds forming. He pulled away.

She didn't like that though. She grabbed his head and pulled him back down hard onto her mouth. And really, her mouth was killer—as much as her voice, but in a different way. It was just good. Right. That whole thing where she made him feel so good, he could hardly recognize it as being something he felt. Soft lips, but _intense_ on his, like she, in fact, could not get enough of him.

Like she could not. Get enough. Of him. And his tongue. In her mouth.

And somehow, _he_ couldn't get enough of _that._

He held her tighter, pulled her closer, and she held tighter right back, and kissed him harder.

And then, just kissing Claire felt so good, after all the missing and the worry and angry and the shame, that John didn't think he cared if it was all they did all night. She had fucking amazing lips. She was right. They were not small.

Those unsmall lips broke away from his but then they were on his neck and jaw. He liked the toying and he liked the play, but the _need_ he felt in her mouth—that was the best.

And then her hands were in his hair. And then _his _hands were all over her, over clothes, not even in a heavy petting way, just making sure she was all there.

He was such an asshole. He loved her. He wanted her to love him, at least to miss him when she wasn't with him. "Did you miss me, Cher?" he breathed, not caring if he sounded desperate.

Now that he was back in gooey-puddle mode, he didn't mind so much. It was the transitions that were hard. Claire, though? She was so soft, pressed against him.

"I missed you a ton," she said. "I hated thinking about you stuck there all day. I wanted to sneak in, but I was afraid to make things worse for you."

He found he believed her without much argument from himself. "I'm gonna sneak in," he mumbled, his hand coming around to the edge of her shirt and feeling her warm skin underneath. The skin felt warmer _because_ of the feelings. "Please, Cherry, just for a sec?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, John realized that begging to go up his girlfriend's shirt about a minute after he'd decided he'd be good with just kissing all night was maybe a little contradictory, but he had, in fact, _really_ missed her. His resolutions didn't all work out.

Claire took his hand in hers and moved it, and he felt his heart sink a little. OK. Whatever. Maybe later. He wasn't a dick in that way. Not this thirty seconds, anyway.

Then he realized she was moving his hand up, not away.

That was so fucking hot.

But not as hot as what he found. He froze. He thought he was having a heart attack. Or a fantasy.

"Claire?"

"Yeah?" Her voice was plenty breathy now.

"Are you really, really trying to kill me?"

She fought a smile. "It was really just curiosity. I was _really_ curious. Enough to pay for express Saturday delivery. I mean, I didn't even know they made them in cashmere."

He ran his thumb over it again. It was really there.

Lust was hammering in John's skull, but through it there was this twist—aside from the giddiness. The sense that when he'd been angry yesterday, she'd gone and ordered this. She wanted him to find it, feel it on her—even when she was mad. He was wrong about where all the power was—he had some too. Or maybe they were both as fucking helpless as he sometimes felt.

Well. And while that might well be true, there was also the fact that there were tits, which were now his to play with. And they were pillowed in cashmere that cost more than the room, and dinner, and drinks combined.

Which was, in itself, a _hell_ of a good thing.

If he fucked this up, he would kick his own ass clear to Kansas.

John had to sit down a minute and just breathe. He had to remind himself that they were going to have an amazing time and not fuck. He let her promises and hints play out in his mind, wash over him in waves. He willed the hammering to ease up, but he let desire buzz in his chest and groin, even his fingertips.

Sex had usually been something of a hurried affair for him—good, sure, but on the get-what-you-can-and-get-out model—an alley, a bathroom, a car—a bed, if you were lucky, but listening with one ear for parents about to burst in.

Now, he found he wanted to take hours not to fuck this girl. He wanted to take hours just to _look_ at her. So he did. She sat down on the bed, and he just looked and looked.

But he must have forgotten about the time because when his gaze strayed from the bruise on her neck, from playing along the line between shirt and skin or the edge of skirt climbing thigh, when he looked up and met her eyes, they were afraid, suddenly vulnerable and young.

He realized she looked her age.

She bit her lip and moved an arm across her chest as if to offer even more cover than her blouse. "Don't—don't you like it, John?"

Of all the dumb-ass questions that anyone had ever asked John Bender, that had to take the cake.

Not breaking her stare, he got up again, stood over her, took her hand and put it up to touch him. He pressed her hand into him, right where he strained and ached for her. He watched as her eyes got wide.

"You tell me, Cherry. Do I like it?"

He watched, fascinated, as her breathing quickened and she licked her lips. Licked her lips. Wow. She just nodded, never breaking his gaze.

"That's correct. Good answer, Claire."

She looked down a minute, swallowed. Was that too much?

"Do you want to take off my shirt, or do you want me to?"

John detected a little note of panic.

"Have you ever asked anyone that before?"

"You know I haven't."

"You don't have to take your shirt off, Claire."

His boy parts started grumbling at that so loudly he wondered if she could hear them. _Relax, guys. It's coming off, I give it to you in writing._

"I don't want you to be mad at me," she said, her voice small.

John sat down and started unlacing his boot, not looking at the girl. Something about her saying that made him mad.

It was the idea, again, that he was pressuring her at all when she, _she, _was the one to push. He'd _never_ touched her between the legs, not really. And sure he joked, but when it came down to it? Never. Never pushed. Not since that first day.

At least, not very far. Sure he might have been taking things a little further than she meant to, but she hadn't stopped him. And he hadn't pushed.

At least, not when he was sober.

He closed his eyes, the memory of his stellar phone manner from the night before suddenly getting sharper than it had been.

It was possible he wasn't a total angel.

He also wondered if what she said was true. He was pretty sure part of her wanted him to be a little mad at her.

It was as if she paid attention to what he said, like she sometimes _really listened,_ like she knew anger was the feeling he could take the farthest.

But he was working so hard at showing others—when he wasn't working so hard not to show any of them at all.

He was so fucked up. What if even with his life less fucked up, he still was? He closed his eyes. What if, even with all Claire's and everyone else's slightly fucked up efforts to help him, he was still just an asshole and a loser? She'd be so disappointed. What would happen to the candy and the cashmere then?

Better enjoy the hell out of it, then, while it was still around. He finally got his boots off and turned around.

Claire had scooted up the bed and was sitting there, arm hugging her knees and not looking at him. Uh-oh. He might have a little work to do there.

"Cherry. I'm gonna come up there too, OK?"

"No, I was kind of just hoping you'd stay down there a million miles away in your own head."

"Princess, don't get all huffy. I was just taking off my boots. Or don't you want me near you now that I kept the Princess waiting?"

Claire glanced at him for about a quarter second. She still looked really fucking young.

"So is it OK if I come up there, or not?"

"Of course," she said. "I'm not a tease, I'm really not."

"Did I say you were?"

"Um, yeah."

Oh, yeah.

"Well—I guess that means what you do gets me hot, right?" John scooted up the bed and lay down next to Claire, propping himself on his arm.

She turned to look at him. She was still sitting all scrunched. But looking at him was progress.

So he looked back. He wanted her to tell him what she was afraid of—that would help with not scaring her—but talking straight on wasn't something he could do right now. He was afraid they'd get on to what _he_ was afraid of.

John watched as his stare made Claire breathe so heavily that she had to uncurl her body to make room for her breathing. She turned slightly, so that she was half reclining, not breaking the stare.

Some of her breathing was nerves, he thought. He could tell the difference. John Bender was well-versed in girl-reaction.

But they'd been on a bed together before. They'd gone even further when they weren't on a bed. He wasn't sure what made it different this time. Again, he wanted to ask, but there were too many topics he just couldn't go near, and what made it extra tricky was that he didn't know what they were.

Maybe it was the motel. Maybe it made her feel cheap.

Maybe it was the fact that he'd torn a door off the hinges.

Maybe it was that they hadn't _just_ been at each other's throats. Powering through some kind of rage or pain had surely fueled some of their hotter moments. Maybe that stuff was like drink for her, loosened her inhibitions.

It'd be all right. You didn't buy a cashmere bra and wear it to a motel room you'd gotten for your favorite criminal with a cashmere fetish because you didn't want him touching you.

She wanted more. He wanted more. It was bound to happen. He just had to figure out how to get her back there. It was normal for her to be scared. She'd just started kissing this week, and he maybe wasn't the most reassuring guy ever.

They had to get out of their own way, both of them.

He closed his eyes just to breathe in, focus on the scent of her a minute. It was one of the things he was always missing about her when she wasn't there, like in the back of his mind a little tape was playing, "she's not here, she's not here, she's not here." But now, Claire's skin and lips were so close, and she smelled amazing, probably like some kind of fancy perfume but also cherries and chocolate.

He couldn't keep his eyes closed long, because if he opened them, he could see her tongue from time to time between her lips. He wanted his mouth there. He could see the bruise at her throat. He wanted his mouth there, too. And then he looked at her eyes, watched them looking at him, and it felt like he wanted to move in to them or something. Like they could hold all of him.

Like she could hold all of him. knew it wasn't happening but, _God, _did he want to be inside her. So many ways. All ways.

"Oh, God," she breathed.

"What?"

Claire lay down next to him, mirroring his position. She smiled a little shyly. "You just—you just looked so amazingly—sexy."

He smiled a little more, surprised. She could be so uptight and then just so—right there.

She went on. "I just can't believe anyone would look at me like that. I mean, I just seem so—I don't know, average, like a normal girl. And you look like—you. And I get all awkward, but then you look at me _like that_ and I don't see how anything else could ever matter, ever—"

He wanted to hear what she was saying, he really did, but he was suddenly, painfully, shockingly desperate to kiss her again. Pillowy lips, tongue against tongue. A way he could be inside her. He brought their hips together and they fell into a rhythm, and it felt _so good,_ if a little on the crazy-making side of things. He varied his tongue in her mouth and she just followed, deep to gentle, deep to gentle, changing things up like he would someday when he was deeper in. But this in itself was great. Her throat made little noises, and her hand was on his shoulder.

The feel of her hand just on his shoulder, apparently really liking it there, _that _was good. He tangled their legs together and she let him.

"Mmm."

She sounded like she meant it. John chuckled. "What was that?"

Claire laughed softly, "I think I just said mmm."

"What was mmm?"

"I think I just really like your shoulder. Is that weird?"

"Yeah. But maybe it'll come in handy."

"What do you mean?"

John moved his hand to the top button of her shirt. He undid it, looking her in the eye.

"Maybe you'll need something to hang on to a little later."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" Her voice wobbled a little. She was trying to play it cool. He wanted to tell her that she didn't need to, but he didn't really know how. And really, as if he was one to talk.

"Depends on how scared you are," and he unbuttoned another button, "of losing control."

"How scared are you?"

John trailed with one finger over the newly exposed skin. He wouldn't touch or feel or even uncover anything more yet, because she'd had those skittish moments, but he smiled as Claire's back arched. "I asked you first."

"That line is getting old," she pouted.

"I'm not scared," he said, blowing the words into her ear and then licking her there for a while. He loved her sounds and movements when he was at her ear.

"Yes, you are," Claire whispered, "but I don't know what of."

"I'm totally unafraid of feeling you up for several hours on end. Mouth or hands. I'm that brave."

Claire swatted him on the ass. Jesus fuck. Did she fucking even know what she was doing? He was afraid he might have moaned.

"Brat," she said, voice still trembling.

"So you've said." He undid another button.

"How scared are you of losing control?" he asked again.

"I don't know," she said, and put her hand up to his face, suddenly soft and serious. John's heart was in his mouth, somehow. "Why don't you give me a little taste of it, and we'll find out?"

Sometimes, a guy shouldn't need to be asked twice. He undid the last buttons, and her shirt fell open. She leaned into the pillows and just lay there, looking at him. Open but shy enough to feel like it might break his heart. The little bra was pale pink, kind of creamy, like her skin behind it, a contrast of soft on soft. It had a little shiny bow in the middle.

She smiled. "See, when you look like that, I don't have to worry if you like something."

"You never have to worry I won't like looking at your chest, Claire. Just cross that right off your worry list."

She smiled a little wider. "You're making me blush."

"I know, it's really pretty."

He hadn't even meant to tell her that, it wasn't really the kind of thing he said.

But her tits apparently liked it. Jesus.

Then Claire took his hand and said, "I thought you weren't afraid, big talker," and her voice was even more trembling. And really, maybe he had been a little afraid of messing up something so pretty.

"I just didn't want to get it all messed up," he whispered, not meaning to say anything at all.

"Remember, John? I cleaned off your sticky hands earlier." She stroked his hand.

"They're still kind of rough, though. I mean, you know—I'm a mechanic now."

She stroked his hand again. "Mmm. They are a little rough. Rough hands on my new cashmere. What a disaster that would be. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Claire, don't start—"

Claire moved her hand down to her chest and traced the edge of the cashmere. "Hmm. It _is_ so soft. Maybe I should call Percy, I bet he gets manicures—"

But she ended in a gasp, because John started putting his big rough hand all over her. And even pissed off and wound up as she was surely trying to get him, the feel of girl in cashmere was just as amazing as it always was. But because she couldn't resist fucking with him a little, he grabbed her harder than he would have, otherwise.

Evidence suggested she didn't mind.

Not all of her was soft under there. He loved the feel of that, that her nipple would get hard from his hands. He traced over it gently, then grasped it hard again. Because it made her gasp and writhe in her rich fucking cashmere.

"_My_ hands, Claire."

"Duh."

"Why do you want to fuck with me like that?"

"Everyone needs hobbies."

"Christ, I could get pissed off at you right now if you didn't feel so fucking good."

"But then you'd never hear about how," and she shifted a little extra, like she was putting on a show—which was OK, writhing girl in the cashmere bra was a show he would tune in for any time, day or night—"how when I wear cashmere now, it's almost like having your hands on me."

"Almost?" he asked. He cupped her on one side, then the other.

He got both hands into the act, palming her waist, easing up her chest, fondling the hell out of the cashmere and then up over her shoulders, down again to the waist, and back.

It was really an excellent way to pass the time.

Plus, you could imagine a girl wanting to be with a person who could make her feel like _that._

"Why almost?"

"Duh."

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?" she panted.

"Guess."

"What about this?" She leaned back and stretched her hands up over her head. Excellent view. "Whenever your hands aren't on me, I'm wishing they were. Even when I want to kill you."

"Even though they're rough."

"It just adds texture. Oh God, like that—you never did that before, _God!_" Rough hands apparently included even his stubby fingernails.

"My rough hands like you too." They really did. So did his mouth, he remembered, and he started kissing her again while he rubbed her through her cashmere, and her breathy sighs and moans told him even more than her words did.

She pushed at him. "Take your shirt off," she said, shocking him somewhat.

Done.

He sat up looking at her a moment, because _Christ,_ he wanted to remember her like this, every single day for the rest of his life, panting and turned on and thoroughly kissed.

He trailed his hands down her front, over the front of her skirt, down the top of her thighs over the nylons. He dug in a little with his fingers.

"Are you wearing panties under these, Claire?"

Claire nodded.

"Can I take the stockings off, then? I _really_ want to feel your legs with my rough hands, Claire."

She looked, swallowed, and nodded. "Panties stay on," she whispered.

"Got it."

John let his hands travel up under her skirt, noticing how Claire tensed when he was under there. Really not ready. Maybe not even for hands.

He had to show her how OK with that he was. And it wasn't an act. If it didn't feel good to her, there was no fucking point to it. He'd find something that did.

So he made it quick, just grabbed the top and peeled them down until he got down past the skirt line, felt her relax a little, and then traced her leg with the tips of his fingers as he pulled the nylons off.

She looked so interested in what he was doing. That was hot.

So smooth, she must have just shaved. Maybe thinking about him doing this. He ran his hands over her shin, down her pretty pink-pedicured foot, back up.

"Christ, Claire. Do you know how much time I spent just this morning thinking about your legs? They're kind of endless."

Claire drew a line down his chest with her toe. "Maybe I could get cashmere leggings."

"If that happened I might have to start going to church."

She giggled and kicked at him.

"Seriously though, sweetheart, you shouldn't spend so much money on stuff for me."

Claire shook her head, haughty but giggly at the same time. "Kind of cocky, aren't you? I _stole_ the scarf, remember? And the bra is _mine._" She leaned her head back and sighed, which arched her whole body off her arms in a fucking incredible pose. John felt his breath thicken, and he was throbbing from it.

She put her head back up, her hair all messy. She looked so fuckable, John thought he might die. "If I could've just _purchased_ you, John Bender, my week would have been so much easier."

John stroked her leg some more. "Looks like you got me anyway."

"Yeah?" Claire got breathy again. But this time, she trailed her foot over his goddamn crotch and caused his brain to explode. She traced her toe up and down the seam of his jeans. Yeah. Right there.

Jesus motherfucking hairy Christ.

He grabbed her foot and held it in place for a minute, pressing. "Oh, yeah," he said, in part trying to answer the question, whatever it was, and in part just expressing his general enthusiasm for Claire touching him there with any part of her body. The foot thing was somehow extra erotic. She was extra erotic.

He took her foot in his hand and rubbed the sole hard with his thumbs. Claire moaned.

"Cashmere never did _that_ for me," she sighed. "I like you so much better."

"You're just saying that cause you know what a sucker I am for that shit." John shook his head. Was he really that obvious?

Claire pulled him down on top of her. "Don't be dumb. Of course I'd rather have you than cashmere."

"Why?" He brought his hand up to her chest again. It felt just as awesome. "That's crazy. That stuff is amazing."

"Oh, so just because you'd rather have cashmere than me, you can't believe I'd feel otherwise?"

Shit. Even in John's lust-addled brain, he could feel them veering off into talking territory.

"Claire, the fact that I don't seem to have to choose between you and cashmere is the first sign I've ever had that there may be a God after all."

"Oh. My God. You are _such_ a _pig_!"

"Uh-oh, pigs don't have hands."

"Well, then, maybe I should get a boyfriend who isn't a pig."

Wham. Hands over her head, his hands tight around her wrists. In her face. Fury.

"You want a different boyfriend?"

She shouldn't play like that. Maybe she wasn't playing. Maybe she was before, when she said other things. Who the fuck knew when she was playing?

But through his rage, John Bender did not miss the fact that Claire loved the hell out of this position. That he did too was no surprise.

"Do you?" He tightened his hands. Push it. Fine. He would.

"Are you afraid I do?" She pushed back. With her words. And her eyes. And her chest. That was the best. Because his shirt was gone and he could feel the soft of the cashmere and the soft and the hard of what was under it, panting and pressing and moving against him.

Searing hot.

He would die if he didn't have this. He would die if she did this with someone else.

Of course he was afraid. Of course he was afraid that, the second he fully melted past the point of no return, his failures and fuckups would become too much. Her curiosity would be satisfied, she'd have used him to learn about sex, and take what she'd learned to benefit some partner who could buy her stuff, play tennis, whatever the hell rich people did. And whatever colossal cosmic fuck up had wrapped Claire Standish around John Bender would resolve itself and leave him alone and more fucking broken than he was before.

He should lie. Instead he hiked her skirt higher up her legs and thrust himself, aching and denim-squeezed, against her _panties_, hissing, "Yes. I'm afraid of that, Claire. That's something I learned from you. As you _fucking." _Thrust._ "Well."_ Thrust. _"Know._"

The denim probably chafed against her, too. Payback. Fuck it.

The sounds she made. They kind of made him see stars.

His hands were still tight on her wrists, too. She sort of sighed into it. "You're apparently a very good student in Jealousy 101, John."

"Top of my goddamn class. You can stop testing."

"Why can't you apply yourself in other areas? Like when I say _nice_ things?"

"Maybe I don't speak nice."

"Maybe you should learn. But in the meantime, think about this, slow learner." She twisted a little, but he held her firm. "If I wanted a different boyfriend, I would have one. Do you think I didn't have any takers?"

"I don't wanna hear about it, Claire. Seriously. All I care about, is do you want a different boyfriend now, now you know you have me?"

She reared up and bit him on the mouth. He bit back, then thrust into her mouth with his tongue. It was a little too hard, he thought, but then he felt her hips buck into him and he bucked back. He transferred both her wrists into just one hand, trailed his free hand over her face, her neck, down her chest.

She broke away to talk, or rather pant. "You tell me, John. Do I want a different boyfriend?" She paused, got another breath in. Fighting for control despite being pinned beneath him. "Think of this as a quiz. Have you been paying attention?"

"You look so threatening completely helpless underneath me."

"Do you get off on that?"

"Guess."

"My answer first."

"Well—" John paused, trying to get a grip on himself. "I don't see any other dudes in here pinning you to a mattress."

"What if they don't show up 'til later?"

"I'll kill them."

"How do you know they're not coming?"

"Well, I'm sure as hell not coming, so why should they?"

"Pig. Let go of me."

John let go immediately. Fuck. He knew it was a little harsh, but _she_ was a little harsh. Plus, he'd really thought she'd kind of been into it. He couldn't meet her eyes.

"John."

"Sorry. I'm sorry, Cherry. You _should_ want a different boyfriend."

"John, I never for one second thought you wouldn't let go. I was never afraid. Were you?"

Silence.

Then she whispered, "Do it again."

He turned to her. Her eyes met his. "Say it."

"Say what?"

He moved back over her, taking her wrists in his hands again. "Say what you fucking _know_ I want to hear."

"It's only you I want, John."

"More. Say what you don't want."

"I don't want a different boyfriend."

"So why do you play like you do?"

Silence.

"Tell me," he insisted, gripping her harder.

"John, it's the only time you really believe me. When I say nice stuff, you doubt it or deflect it or go away. Even if it's just in your own head. You've been doing that to me all night. Do you think I don't notice? Do you think you're the only person here who _notices_ things? You think I don't _see_ the dark places you go?"

"It's lucky you don't."

"No, it's not."

"Trust me."

"That's hardly the issue."

"Oh yeah? Then why are your panties still on?"

"Pig. Because I'm not ready to take them off."

John looked down. OK. Low blow. He was a pig. He let up on her arms again, rubbing them slightly. The skin _was_ just as soft as he'd remembered earlier. Too soft for him. It made no sense that he got to touch it.

She kept talking. "Panties are _not_ the issue. You're doing it again. You're changing the subject, when you were the one that asked."

Her arms were still pinned. How did that make it so that _she_ called the shots? "OK. So. What you said before might be part of the truth, Claire. But that's not all of it. Again. Why do you play with me like that?"

"Maybe I'd rather send you to a dark place than have you just go there and I won't know why."

John stared at her a moment. She stared back. Their eyes were so close that they almost merged. Her breathing was intensely erratic, he literally could feel her twitch even through his jeans.

"The rest of the truth, Claire," he growled, and stretched her arms a little further up. She gasped. "Do you like me in a dark place, Cherry?"

She looked away.

"Say it."

She kept looking away, and John thought he might have seen a tear. But she'd _asked_ for this.

"So what if I do," she said, softly, and then whipped her head around to face him, eyes flashing. "What makes you think I don't have dark places of my own, Bender?"

* * *

**DUN DUN DUN DUN! Thanks for reading, y'all. Borderline plot? Too smutty? Need a shoulder to hold on to? Let me know. All readers get beer and pizza, but reviewers get a candy-coated Bender. The lyric for this chapter was one of the first I thought of, way back in 2009. This chapter is dedicated to a Super special new reader who ****helped get me back into the fic and then ****picked up on a "plot" twist early. All the twists mentioned here are for her.  
**


	29. Chapter 28

I look at your pants and  
I need a kiss

-Violent Femmes

Dark places.

When Claire looked John Bender in the eye and saw wild glints, and sweetness hiding, and rage right up front, dark places opened up inside her.

Rocket had told her to keep some things separate, but when she looked at him _staring_ at her like that, the layers got unraveled and wrapped up in a big, gnawing tangle of want in the pit of her stomach and lower.

There were places in John Bender that were dark and scary. But the parts of her that wanted them—they might be even scarier. She didn't want them _more_ than the sweet cuddly parts. She wanted it all.

Including the parts that were trying not to laugh at her right now, even though those were incredibly annoying and needed to be punished.

"I think it might be the freckles," John said, still pinning her hands above her head, but more gently.

Claire rolled her eyes, finding it somewhat difficult in this position, but pulling it off anyway. "What about them?"

"It might be the freckles, that make me think you don't have dark places of your own." Claire could feel the laughter in his chest. "Plus the pink." He nuzzled her cheek like a puppy. Or maybe she was the puppy.

Then grip on her wrists tightened. "Plus you're not ready to let me get anywhere near the one dark place I _know_ you have."

That was true.

Claire knew a lot of people would see it as a contradiction, some of the things she _was_ ready for, compared to some of the things she wasn't.

Whatever. Sex wasn't really baseball, after all. There were no set rules about where you went, and in what order.

They'd gotten to a lighter, teasing place somehow, and John's bare chest felt amazing against her. Skin just felt so good, she wished they could just feel each other's skin for hours. And maybe they could. It would be easy to fall into rolling around and kissing. She could laugh, and let John do all the work of figuring out what she wanted, didn't want. She could just lie there, there half dressed and panting, determined to stay a virgin for months yet while he ached and strained for her.

But that just didn't seem fair.

Claire wanted to show John that the thing between them was a two way street.

That, and she really, _really_ wanted to blow his mind. Even if that's all she was ready to blow, right now.

Claire was positive she wanted him more than those other girls had wanted him. She wanted the parts between his _toes. _There was no part of John Bender she didn't want, including the parts that she probably shouldn't. And because of this, she was positive, if she could get him to let go a little, would be closer and hotter between them than he'd had it with any of those other girls. No matter how far they'd let him get.

"Let." That word. That was part of the problem. Claire wanted to do some of the taking.

She'd been thinking about bodies. A lot. About her body, and John's body, and all the places she wanted them to touch. Bodies had dozens, maybe hundreds, of lines, and surfaces, and depths. There wasn't just a _line_ you could draw—even between inside and outside. It got blurry. And the feelings—some of them were skin and tongue feelings and some of them were _feelings_ feelings, and she and John, they could play and surf and—touch all of them.

Like they were right now. So much of their bodies were touching. She could feel the weight of him on her, kind of relaxed and tense at the same time, and she could look at his eyes, laughing and turned on, and looking right at her, and she felt like she could stay like this _forever. _

Still. It was maybe different for guys. Maybe they had that line—like they _had_ to get somewhere, or it just got uncomfortable. Her brother had said stuff like that, even though he also told her not to be fooled by that line, there wasn't anything to prevent a guy from stopping things himself, and he always had his own methods to "take care of things." But those conversations never lasted long because it was extremely awkward to talk about that stuff with your sibling. And so Claire's best information had left her confused.

Here they were. Motel room. John Bender clenching your hands above your head and biting and licking at your ear and jaw and neck and you could feel him against you down _there. _No time for a quick phone call to a brother.

If she thought too much about it, it kind of freaked her out, where they were and what they were doing, but obviously John was doing stuff that freaked him out, too.

Except that just now he was driving her _crazy_ and her whole body was arching up into him and she felt like _begging_ him to touch her in places she'd just told him not to touch and the whole time, John Friggin Bender was obviously trying not to crack up at the idea of Claire having any dark places of her own. And that was aggravating.

She'd show him. She _would_ show him. "Fine. We'll see, bad boy crush. Go look in the outside pocket of my bag."

John smirked. He so obviously thought he had it all figured out. "I love it when you give me orders with your arms pinned above your head." He bit her neck again. "Are you in a motel room with the school delinquent, Claire? Are you discovering your _dark side?_" He held her hands over her head with one arm now, and started tickling her ribs with the other. "So fucking _dark_,Standish. I'm shaking in my shorts."

"I guess you are. I guess the big bad Bender is afraid to go over there and look."

John pushed himself off her and walked across the room. His back looked great, tensed, still suppressing laughter.

It wasn't like she'd never been to the beach or swimming, but in a motel room, a back looked more naked.

Claire liked the denim at his hips and wanted to see it ride lower. But not all the way. She just wasn't ready for naked yet. But a little lower—that would be fine.

_Not a baseball game,_ she reminded herself. She looked down, unable to watch John find what was in her bag.

"Claire?" She lifted her eyes. John Bender was standing across the room, eyes wild, body motionless. They were in his hand, he held them up and the low light glinted on the metal curves.

The curve of his arm, his shoulder, bare, made Claire's stomach twitch. She licked her lips. "Yes?" She met his eyes and felt them on hers. She could feel her chest rise under his stare.

His mouth was open, his jaw had dropped and then set again. He was barely breathing.

He walked slowly, purposefully across the room. She felt herself get up on her knees, rise up to meet him. She waited for his mouth to come down on hers but it didn't. He just stood before her, staring.

"Where did you get these, Claaire?" He extended her name in that mocking tone, but it was more like the one from a week ago, when they'd first met, the tone that bit into her. The warm teasing was gone.

"Do you care?"

John walked toward her, looking very much like he cared where she got them.

"A virgin doesn't walk around with _handcuffs,_ Standish."

"This one does." She scooted back a little on the bed but her back was already at the wall. He was breathing hard, maybe angry, maybe turned on. Maybe—actually, make that _definitely_ both. And coming towards her.

"Bullshit." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

She shook her head. His chest was very good looking, expanding from all that hard breathing. She didn't even _know_ that boys' chests could be sexy—the greased up men in the muscle magazines some of her friends giggled over didn't do it for her.

Wow. They were really in a motel room together, and she'd just sent him for handcuffs. It wasn't even prom yet. Would they even go to prom? Wow.

He looked scary, and that was hot. She licked her lips and wanted him to do it for her.

"Put your hands back over your head. Now." He was towering over her, cuffs clenched tightly in a fist.

"No." Claire crawled up the bed a little and stood on her knees again, bringing her eyes closer to his level and folding her arms over her chest.

John narrowed his eyes, and his voice got louder. "So you're just trying to yank my chain here, _Princess_?"

"Duh, John Bender." Claire smiled, leaning back onto one arm and cocking her head to one side. "But I'll have to chain you first." She bit her lip and looked at him. "So I'll have something to yank on." She didn't have to fake the shyness.

"There's fucking limits, Claire."

She swallowed. "Tell me what they are. I hear we should set those up first. "

"Jesus."

John sat down on the bed, not looking at her. This wasn't going quite the way she'd planned. She looked at him, and noticed he looked _young._ Was young. Maybe even a little afraid.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do, John," she said quietly.

John breathed out sharply. "Funny. You're _funny._"

Claire shook her head. "It's not a joke."

"Yes, it_ fucking_ is, apparently."

"No. I want you to trust me."

John turned the cuffs over in his hand, considering. Then his eyes were back on hers again, and again, they looked angry. "You think the night I find out you've spent the weekend taping my conversations—that's the time to play trust games?"

Claire swallowed harder and nodded as she watched a sneer harden in place on John's face.

"When do I get to cuff _you,_ _Claire_? Before or after you let me finger you even _over_ the panties? Cause last time I checked, you don't even trust _me_ enough to let me do _that._"

Looking down, Claire took a deep breath. "We should have a word for if the other person goes too far. I suggest 'root beer.' And if we had that word, I would say it right now."

Silence.

"Because last time I checked, John, I got a motel room before—before you even told me about, um, your algebra conclusion_. _That's trust. So maybe I _am_ a virgin, and want to stay one for a while. Technically. But that? That's not about trust_,_ that's about being ready. And—and wanting to still like you after. And still like _me. _Cause I'd barely even kissed until a week ago today and it might not seem like it to you but this is going awfully fast. Even if I want it to, even if I'm the one doing some of the pushing—it's fast. And so if you have a problem with waiting until I feel okay with stuff, you know where the door is." Her voice was shaking.

Silence. In fact, John was picking at little fabric pills on a worn part of the comforter.

"But in spite of all that? Here I am anyway, and with _you._ Like you said, in a motel room with the school delinquent. Which, given your reputation, most people would say makes me certifiably insane. So even though I have a lot of reasons why I shouldn't, like things you've done and said to me, just this week? I'd say, I do trust you. I'd say it's your turn."

She took the handcuffs from John, let their weight settle on her fingers, then put them on the bedside table.

"But if you're not ready to go that far, that's cool," she said, smiling a little.

Then she watched as John looked up. What she saw in his eyes forced all the breath out of her body.

"I wanna go wherever you wanna take me, Standish," he muttered, his voice low and serious.


	30. Chapter 29

**Actually, I just couldn't resist breaking the chapter where I did. It was too good a line. Here's the rest of it, then there will be Really Good Feelings, then a tiny coda of this one.**

* * *

LEMME GO ON

-Violent Femmes

* * *

John's eyes never left Claire's as he eased his way across the bed and put his hands over his head. It made her stomach and heart turn somersaults.

"Anyone ever done this to you before?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.

He nodded, saying "no."

Claire's eyes got wider. That was still so cute. She had a feeling she should be looking serious and sultry or something, but she felt soft inside. "OK, Cherry," she whispered, "I'll be gentle since it's your first time."

John felt the metal bite into his wrists.

At the same time, he bit back the thoughts about how insane this was, how she could walk out and leave him there, maybe send in the photographers for the postcards she was making for her richie friends.

How she might, really, have listened to the tapes she'd had made, and heard him crying, and pleading, and worse.

How she might not be a virgin, after all, and he was getting played in the mother of all popular girl scams.

Or at the very least, how the hell she had gotten to the point of handcuffs, and where she'd gotten the idea.

But John Bender was leaving all that thought behind because there was a girl who wanted to cuff him and do things to him and he had been about to argue with her. Because of _thoughts_ he was having. So it seemed like thought was not his friend right then.

Thought was an uptight bitch, in fact, and he was done with her.

Holy fuck, it was hot. He stretched, and the metal bit into his hands again and he knew himself well enough to know he liked that fine.

He did want to go where Claire Standish wanted to take him. It was _intense._

Claire straddled John, thankful for the years of ballet that kept her legs strong so she could hover over him, not get _too_ close to _that, _yet. Didn't want to give him the wrong idea. Or herself a panic attack.

It was a lot to keep in mind, when you had total responsibility for someone else, had to keep them safe. She wondered if this was what it was always like for boys, when they were kind of in charge of all the making out. She wondered if they ever thought at all, how the girl was feeling, or if it was just "c'mon, get it in there, in there, in there," like people made it seem.

She paused a minute to enjoy the view. John's arms and shoulders looked really good over his head.

She took his hair in her hands and twisted. "See, John, this way, you won't have to worry you're trying to get me to do anything I don't really want to do, because you _can't._ You can only stop me."

"Cherry, trust me, not interested in stopping you."

No, Claire thought, he really wasn't. So she put her mouth on John's mouth and twisted her hands in his hair more, pulling on his head as she pushed with her tongue. He opened his mouth wider, letting her in. She felt him let her control it, and it made her hips sway. She did like this. And it was a little dark, maybe.

This was beyond lavender.

This was _purple._ For sure.

Claire moved her hands to John's arms, sat up, let her hands trail down his arms to his chest.

"You look so good, John. I'm so crazy into you." She wasn't sure if saying something like that was part of the kind of game she was playing, but it was so true, it was like she _had_ to say it. Or she might die, or something.

"Back at you, Standish." John Bender's eyes met hers and the connection was so strong between them, it caught her breath. And held it.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

And they sat like that for neither one knew how long, just staring, feeling the stare between them.

She moved carefully down a little.

"Jesus fucking CHRIST, Claire."

"Is that too much? Do you want me to stop?"

"Fuck, no." He moved his hips slightly. "Keep right the fuck going."

"Just a minute." Claire shook her head and made a little tsk sound. She got up and moved to his side, kneeling. "So impatient."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me." Claire appreciated the effort he was making to try to keep his voice from shaking. She smiled.

"Duh, John Bender."

John took a minute to focus on Claire, kneeling next to him on the bed, her shirt hanging open, like she was still shy. Shy about taking off her shirt but eager to chain her boyfriend.

Yep, that was Claire.

John wondered how the shy kinky one would feel about undoing some of his fly buttons before he did himself permanent damage.

He'd been just about to ask, but it turned out she was asking _him_ something.

"How do polite young men ask for what they want, John?" Claire folded her arms over her chest and looked down at him, failing to hold back a smile.

John couldn't help but smile back. She was so cute. Maybe a little crazy and twisted, but cute. "You are _such_ a goddamn tease."

She shook her head sadly. "Oh, I'm sorry, John, that's incorrect." She moved a little away from him. "I guess we'd better give you some time to think about that answer."

She really did want to play this game.

"Put your hands on me,_ please,_ Claire_._" Fine, he'd play. Strangely, he _loved_ playing like this. But payback was gonna be a _bitch._

"That's better." Claire scooted forward on the bed, skirt still on, _shirt_ still on, and close to him again. She trailed a hand down his stomach, and suddenly John Bender thought he might die right there. His whole body twitched, which made Claire Standish, Claire fucking Standish who'd looked like she might like to bolt not ten minutes before—it made her face light up in pure delight that she could do that to him.

And she hadn't even touched him yet.

She just traced her finger slightly under the top of his jeans, back and forth, and said quietly, "You seem a little tense, John."

She looked so happy and so proud and so shy at the same time, that John Bender felt a kind of lump in his throat.

But then she said, trying to sound all nonchalant, "Maybe later we'd better see if a little massage can relieve some of that tension."

It seemed as if his prayers had finally been answered until Claire hopped up from the bed and went over to the table.

"I really fucking hope you're coming back here, Standish." His voice sounded a little more desperate.

Claire shook her head. "Absolutely no trust at all."

Their eyes met again until John chuckled and shook his head.

"No trust? Hey, who's in the fucking cuffs here?"

"Huh." Claire crossed her arms again, looking full at him, apparently enjoying the view. "I guess it's you. I guess it's John Bender in the handcuffs." She smiled, plenty pleased with herself.

"Tell anyone and I'll sell your panties as trophies in the locker room."

"Oh, sure. Like you'll ever get my panties off."

"You'll fucking _beg_ me to take them off, Standish. Just you wait. This is a goddamn two way street, I'm warning you."

"I like it when you make threats with your hands chained over your head, _Bender._"

Then John's chest started shaking, straining again to contain laughter. "I bet you do. I just fucking _bet_ you do. This is like the pervy princess's wet dream, isn't it? _Jesus,_ you're a tease. You have a Ph.D. in teasery, I swear to God."

Claire nodded thoughtfully and turned her back. "I'm still working on my Masters." She kept her back to him. She would _show_ him. He would _never_ want to just fuck some girl again. He would _beg_ to be _not_ fucked by Claire instead. She would play, and win. It was what she did.

With the box of chocolates in her hand, Claire climbed back up on the bed, kneeled next to John again.

John felt that scenario had some definite possibilities.

Apparently Claire thought so too, she looked like she was thinking all kinds of things as she stared at his chest and tilted her head to one side. She licked her lips.

Things got even tighter in his jeans, and he strained against the metal again. He wanted Claire to bite him on his chest. Harder than she might think.

Right. Exactly.

Instead, she started talking, still sounding thoughtful. "Do you know what it means, that you're chained in this bed and I can move all around the room, doing whatever I want?"

"That you're a closet sadist?" Obviously?

Claire just laughed. "That is one interpretation…" She shook her head, though. "But I don't think that's really it. I just think," and she trailed a finger down his chest, slowly, "I just think it means, that whatever I do to you now, I _really _want to do."

John registered the thought and liked it fine, but he still had to roll his eyes at that one. "Ok. Sure. Fine. It means that. It has nothing to do with the fact that the prom queen gets off on having the school criminal chained up and totally in her power. Get a grip."

Claire pursed her lips. "Well. I was about to. I was thinking, it was about time I _did_ get a grip." She trailed her hand firmly down his stomach again, and it took every inch of John's self control not to buck up. He didn't moan, but he did hiss. He couldn't help it. He thought he might die from being so hard. "But now that you point that out, maybe I will just get off from the power. Even if I don't touch you."

"Be nice, _Claaire._"

"Hmm." She took a chocolate out of the box. "You're not being very submissive."

"And this is fucking surprising to you? You think you put a pair of cuffs on me, and my whole personality changes? That you can just control me that easily?"

"Is that what you're afraid of? That I want to control you?"

"Definition of goddamn girlfriend." John was _beyond_ frustrated. _Always_ with the games.

And true to form, that bitch Thought was back, angling for attention. "Is this why you wanted to chain me up? To have a _relationship_ discussion?"

"Hmm." Claire seemed to consider. She passed the chocolate from one hand to the other, as if chocolate covered cherries might have the answer.

"I could have sworn," said Claire, slowly, still looking at the candy, "that I wanted to chain you up because it would look hot." She took a tiny bite of chocolate. "And that given the fact that we're together, we might both have a taste for that kind of thing. And also," she brought the candy down to John's chest. And she started smearing it on him.

The red insides of the candy were weirdly warm and cool at the same time, definitely sticky. But John couldn't take his hands off Claire's face watching her own hand, her own fingers, smear his chest with chocolate and cherry juice. Her mouth was slightly open and her tongue wet her lips and her lips were still huge and pillowy and going to be on him soon.

While he was chained up underneath her.

Goodbye thought.

"Also, I _thought_ it would be fun to chain you up, because I thought I would really, really like to lick chocolate and cherry juice off of your chest. While you watched and couldn't stop me."

Sounded fucking good to him. He just had to figure if she'd be pissed off if he asked her to undo his top buttons.

"Jesus. Like I'd stop you."

"You would. You'd turn it around so that I was the one writhing under you, and you were the one in control. Because you get off on that. But I think, you'll get off on losing control, too. And I wanted to experiment with that a little. Like you said. Trust games, but with chocolate. Now that you mention it, though, a relationship discussion? That sounds great."

John groaned as her hand trailed down from the chocolate, down his stomach, and then stopped just above the top button of his jeans.

"The rest of this can wait."

He closed his eyes.

"Christ, you are such a fucking tease."

"I'm only a tease if what I do gets you hot." Claire's hand was barely brushing over him now, over his jeans, just the barest hint of pressure. His hips bucked. There was no stopping them.

"Look at me when I talk to you, Bender. Does what I do get you hot?"

"Look at my pants when you talk to me, _Claire,_ and you'll have your fucking answer."

"Hmm," she said, sliding her finger slightly beneath the waist of his jeans, playing with the button. "It does look a little crowded in there."

"No shit. You gonna help with that?"

"That depends. Are you going to tell me what you're afraid of?" And her hand was off him, and her face was near him, and her eyes looked soft and serious now, and John Bender panicked because suddenly, this really was a relationship discussion.

Thought should be squirming in shackles. Not him.

"Yeah, ok, I'm afraid my fucking dick is gonna break in two against my fly if you don't give me some room soon, ok? Or uncuff me and let me do it. You don't have to _touch_ it, if you're afraid, Mistress Virgin."

"I am a little afraid of that. But I guess with you all cuffed, it's pretty safe. Let's see."

And her goddamn hand was _there_, tracing its outline through denim. "It seems pretty safe in there. But what if I unleash it? What if it loses control?"

"It won't. _I_ won't. You can trust me. Like you said. Plus I'm cuffed to the bed, for Christ's sake. But don't if you don't wanna. Fine."

John was clenching his teeth. Her hand on him felt so good, like _killer_ good, like he'd lose it if he wasn't careful good, but with his hands tied he couldn't even adjust himself, and it hurt. And he didn't want to use that line, really, despite what a tease she was being. He knew she'd take care of him.

He trusted her in that. He really did.

And also, even if it was a little true at the moment, "you get me so hard it hurts" was kind of a bullshit line to get a girl to go farther than she would anyway, playing on guilt and whatever.

He supposed he'd used that line in the past. Sure. But he was an _asshole_.

And then her hands were on his pants, careful as they could be not to touch _him _though. And Claire was saying, as straight up as if they _were_ having a discussion that did not include candy melting on his chest and handcuffs, that she didn't want to hurt him.

He wanted to say that a little of that here and there was fine by him, but it was so fucking unclear which conversation they were having, he kept his mouth shut. Because on the emotional level, she could destroy him as soon as change lipstick shades.

Which was so obviously what he was afraid of, he wondered why she was even bothering to ask.

And then his top three buttons were undone, and her eyes were carefully avoiding looking down where her fingers were. Instead her eyes were back on his own eyes, and they were wide, and serious, and she was asking what he was afraid of, besides her hurting him_ there_. Because she hadn't meant to.

Damn. He was a little bit of a dick, he really was.

But that wasn't news. "Afraid of? That you won't take your shirt off and I'll never get to see your tits. I'm fucking petrified, Standish."

But then he saw her frown, and recoil a little. Her eyes were away from him, and she bit her lip again, but this time, it didn't look so sexy. It looked hurt. It looked disappointed.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Look at me, Claire."

She did. Yep. Hurt. But that look—it also got right to the heart of what he really was afraid of.

John looked at her steadily. "You're mixing some different games, here, you know that, right?"

"Who would have thought you're such a stickler for following the rules, _Bender_?" She sounded snotty. Even aloof.

"OK. You're right. You have a dark side. I stand corrected."

"It won't be the first time," she whispered, lips twitching again, back in the game. "Maybe you should call me Miss Standish. Or is that what you're afraid of? That you'll like that?"

John shook his head. OK, maybe he hadn't done shit like this, but it wasn't like he hadn't thought about it. And maybe watched some movies. Ok. Definitely watched some movies.

"Is there a limit you want to set, John?"

"_Jesus,_ Claire."

"Limit?"

He met her eyes. No. He could do this, head to head, toe to toe, he could take whatever Claire Standish could dish out. John Bender was not afraid of any prom queen virgin, handcuffs or no.

"No." John took a deep breath. "No fucking limit, Claire."

"Then tell me one thing. One thing you're afraid of."

Silence. Claire just sat, watching, as John tried to will himself to speak. He was so turned on, _so_ turned on by her, but the position, the cuffs, her family and money—even her lack of experience—it all gave her _so_ much power.

Maybe part of him wanted to tell her, wanted to really lay himself bare, bare as his chest, but he also wanted her mouth on him with a want that would clearly take him over like a tidal wave, so that he would do anything, _anything at all,_ to make it happen.

And she knew it.

Which is why she was playing dangerous.

Claire Standish was a girl used to getting what she wanted. It was _so scary. _Because when she got what she wanted, which she was used to, wouldn't she get bored with that fast?

So John Bender didn't say what he meant. Instead, he took an advantage he figured _he_ had, cuffs or no. "It'll take more than a couple of spankings here and there to make me safeword, Claire, just warning you," he said, all casual, and John watched as her eyes got wide and he backed off from him a little bit.

And at that moment, John Bender realized Claire had really no idea what she was getting into, that she hadn't watched all those movies, and that regardless, she was _still here,_ figuring it out. In some weird way, for him—and maybe for her—but that game or no, she wasn't going on script. She was winging it.

Because when it came right down to it, she was hellishly brave, and he was being a little bit of a pussy.

And maybe because of that, or because he was cuffed, or maybe because Claire Standish really did have John Bender by the balls, literally and figuratively, he gave her the answer she was looking for.

"That I'm just a project to you," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "OK? So you can fucking touch me now."

She nodded. "Not just a project," Claire whispered. "Also dessert."

[See Really Good Feelings interlude, or, insert "they fool around some more."]


	31. Chapter 30

**I'm pretty sure John Hughes would want nothing to do with any of this-but they are his characters-except for the ones I added. And I would never profit from any of it. In any case, they all have a couple chapters left to hang out with us.  
**

* * *

Ooh, slipping and sliding,  
What a good time now,  
but I have to find a bed  
that can take this weight.

-Violent Femmes

* * *

John was relieved that when Claire came out of the bathroom, the skirt, which had never left her the whole time she was doing stuff to him, was finally off.

She was wearing his shirt. It came down a little over her legs. But not that far.

Claire Standish. In John Bender's shirt. He could probably go to bed on that one for years.

But he noticed she looked a little skittish in it. And a little tired. It made something flutter in his chest.

So, much as he'd be ok with going at it with Claire and her many surprises until morning—make that, until Monday morning—John decided, weirdly enough, to try to figure out what she wanted or needed, and go with that.

It seemed like post-handcuff, post-handjob Bender was strangely thoughtful.

That was ok. Probably meant less time till the next one.

So John watched Claire pacing around the room, and tried to read her. She kept straightening things that didn't need it, or were stupid to straighten, like empty pizza boxes. She didn't quite look at John, but she didn't quite _not _look at him, either. It didn't seem like a message, hey, you, I'm not looking at you.

But that massive insight was as far as he got.

Maybe she could use a minute to herself. Because if she really wanted to be with him—well, he was right there, and instead, she was straightening his empty cigarette carton over across the room.

So he asked if she'd mind if he took a shower. He said he was kind of sticky and his arms got a little stiff.

Which was true.

He found himself staring at her legs, quite intently, as he added, "Not like it wasn't worth it, babe."

"It was ok?" she said, rooting through her bag, her back to him.

"It was…exponential." John addressed her from his way to the bathroom.

He heard her laugh. Score. "Do you even know what that means?"

"Now I do."

She laughed again—a little brittle, maybe, but he _thought_ it sounded happy. She still spoke with her back to him, though. "Of course—I mean, the shower. Otherwise you'll get your shirt all sticky. I mean, the one—on me, you know, if—we sleep together. I mean there's only one bed."

"Well, so there is. Huh. On the other hand, if I just skip the shower, and you take the shirt off, then there's no problem—"

"Enjoy your shower, Bender."

John did. In fact, he hoped like hell Claire wasn't freaking out on him, because he really felt unbelievably good. The shower felt good. The crappy motel towel felt good. It even felt good to put his jeans back on—well, scratch that, that felt like crap, but Claire wasn't ready for naked.

It felt good to see Claire drowsing in bed in his shirt, though. It felt so good he thought his heart might explode in his chest, which would definitely be messier than the chocolate and tongue explosion that had happened there earlier.

Twitch.

Jesus. It didn't take long.

He had to think about other things. Like, what do you say to your virgin girlfriend who just gave you a tongue bath with chocolate and may or may not be freaking out about it?

That shit didn't come with an instruction manual.

Carburetors were so simple compared to this. And really, they were a lot more complicated than you'd think, carburetors were.

He wanted to just wrap himself around Claire, she looked so soft and warm, and what's more, John knew she _was._ But her back was to him. He was really trying, but she was hard to read.

_Claire, you're more complicated than a carburetor. But, on the plus side, you smell much better._ Nah. He wouldn't say that.

"Claire, you asleep?"

She shifted, "Um, no, but I'm drifting that way? Sorry."

_Sorry?_ "No."

"Huh?" Her back was still to him.

"No, I mean—" What _did_ he mean? John raked his hands through his hair. "Are you outta your mind?"

"_What?_"

"_Jesus_." Why did he have to suck at this? "I _mean_, you've got nothing to be sorry about."

John wanted to just go up to Clire, put his arms around her, give her a kiss, but it was weird. Like he had no idea how to touch her. Like he never had. Although she was wearing his shirt and he'd just washed her spit off his chest. Christ, this feelings stuff was complicated.

He tried again. "I mean, I should be sorry, maybe, that you're—you know, you didn't, um, get there."

This was so fucking embarrassing all of a sudden.

At this, Claire turned toward over and looked at him, all heavy-lidded. "No! I didn't want to."

OK, that was surprising. Hell. "Huh?"

"I mean, well—I don't want to be in a place where—you know, where either one of us has to get, um, there, all the time, you know?" She propped herself up on one arm, but looked down. "I mean, John, like I said, I just started making out—and, I know you didn't. But what if I still sometimes just want—to do that. Will that still be ok?"

John decided that the best thing to do right now, was not to bring up handcuffs.

He decided that the best thing, instead, would be to cross the enormous divide that had sprung up between them, but that was actually just a smallish motel room, and sit down on the bed next to Claire.

He decided it would be good if he just stroked her arm, and told her that he wouldn't be sick of making out with her any time soon, which was fucking true. That it wasn't like they lived in a motel, or like she had all the time in the world, with her clubs and activities and friends. He assured her he'd be more than happy to make out with the prom queen and cop a feel in a closet any time she'd let him.

"So you won't be pressured into gooey wet orgasms by me, Miss Standish, on that you have my solemn vow."

She snorted and swatted his chest and called him a gross pig, so things seemed fine again.

But he wanted to check on something.

"You didn't just do—I mean—you were into it, right?"

"Wait, I'm sorry—" and she sounded irritated, but she was actually smiling, "_who_ thought of the room, who studied, who brought…supplies?"

"Maybe you just did it—for me, or some shit."

"Oh right. That's me. It's what everyone always says. Claire Standish, the selfless. Saint Claire, they call me…"

"I might call you that…I might kinda get off on that, actually…"

"Yeah, well, I'm not dressing up like a nun _or_ a Catholic school girl, so you can cross that right off your list, you perv."

"Where do you even _get_ this stuff?"

Claire shrugged and flopped on her back into the pillows. "_Cosmo_, mostly. I tried going through my dad's _Playboy_ stash, but really, I already knew men liked boobs, and it's kind of light on the info. _Cosmo_ has, you know, more practical hints—from my perspective."

John thought about recommending some other reading material, but wisely held his tongue. He stood up and stretched, and caught Claire eyeing him as he did.

That felt excellent. Claire checking out his bare torso, it made him want to—become a lifeguard or something, so she could do it every day.

He should probably work out.

_Jesus,_ he was in deep.

Yeah, no shit.

However, there were other matters to attend to. Post-handjob Bender might be a thoughtful and reflective sort, but he was not a saint, either. So he asked his nervous girlfriend if it would be ok if he took his jeans off and slept in his shorts.

She whispered it would be ok, and suddenly all the Cosmo and Playboy tough talk was gone, and he could tell, that it was really only _just_ ok—but that it was. And somehow, that made him feel warmer and gooier than the inside of a chocolate-covered cherry—which, as he knew now better than most people, could be pretty fucking warm and gooey.

So he told her thanks, just simple, no sarcasm, and even turned his back to her as he took his jeans off, to spare her any more embarrassment.

Then John Bender got into bed and gathered up an armful of soft, warm, slightly nervous Claire Standish. He held her up against his body, and she relaxed into him slowly, skin easing into skin. And he wondered what the hell had happened to his life. Because even his _toes_ felt good.

"This is nice," murmured Claire, as she nestled into his arms. "You're not mad."

"Nah," said John, stroking her back through his t-shirt, and loving the way it felt, "I think you've hit on an excellent method of controlling my temper. In fact, if the next time Vernon hauls me into his office, if you wanna just prep me first—"

"Oh, my God. That is _so gross._ _Why_ are you such a pig?"

"Well, mad's one thing. But if you want me to stop being a _pig__—_well, I can think of some other activities we might try…"

"Remember when I said it was nice, a minute ago?"

John held her closer. "Yeah. That was weird. But I figure, one of us has to be mad. Or how will we know it's us?"

It felt like Claire smiled into his chest. Which was a great feeling. "But John?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not mad."

"Shit. Me either. Who the fuck are we?"

In fact, John still wasn't sure what had had him so riled up before—although he'd gotten laid enough to know this feeling wouldn't last forever. "But don't worry," he said, nibbling lazily at her ear, "I'll probably get pissed off again tomorrow."

"OK," said Claire, as her weight settled softly into him. "That can be hot, too."

John took her face in his hands and started kissing her. He did his best to make it not totally sexual—though he could get there in a heartbeat. He tried to keep a little space between them, and tried kissing her through the other feelings he had for her, the ones that were all soft and gooey and sweet, the ones that saw her in his shirt and didn't say _mine_ but were just happy she wanted to be there.

Claire gave a breathy little sigh scooted up closer so he could feel all her legs and chest against him—soft, and smooth, and a little trembly. She put her arms around him, around _him, _and kissed him back, slow and slidy and a little lazy.

OK, so that was more than a twitch, but he tried to keep that to himself. He felt _so_ good.

She kissed his neck and cheek, and then whispered in his ear, "I love lying in bed with you and kissing, John Bender. But don't tell anyone."

That caused a little pang. He knew she was joking—but really, he also knew she meant it, both about the kissing, and the not telling. And she didn't just mean not telling about the stuff they did together, either.

John pulled back, lay on his back, and pulled Claire on top of him. He tried to keep his tone light, to keep the sharp and the cold that covered for the hurt well away from his voice. Her skin was so soft, it felt like even a harsh tone could cut it.

And she was _here,_ wasn't she?

"How about this? Sleeping on me, and shit? What about that?" He had to let this shit go. What did he expect, the prom queen to go around with a neon sign saying "I gave a hand job to John Bender, and I liked it?"

Ok, so he didn't expect that. But it would be an _awesome _sign.

But Claire was in a different place, and she seemed really happy there. Snuggly. And she was in bed with him, sleeping with him, draped all over him, and why the fuck he would have any problem with a scenario that brought her _there,_ he had no idea.

"I'll sleep really well on you," she said sleepily. "You're all warm."

"Yeah," he said, "you, too." And at least she was right now. On Monday, she wouldn't be as warm. True enough. But she wasn't as cold as she thought she'd be when she said that shit about none of them talking after last Saturday, either.

"John, I even like feeling your toes," she said, "that's so weird." And then she didn't say anything at all.

John Bender realized he'd rather have a neon sign saying that Claire Standish liked his toes than a neon sign about hand jobs. But even without the sign, it was pretty cool.

* * *

**Reviewers get the neon sign of their choice. Interested parties get one more Really Good Feelings chapter in the near future. Everyone gets another dose of Rocket in the next chapter of the main story. **


	32. Chapter 31

It always seems like you're leaving  
when I know the other one  
just a little too well...

-Violent Femmes

* * *

The phone in Claire's bedroom rang. And rang, and rang, and rang.

Not John, because he'd left the motel that morning holding a bag of cassette tapes, his face dark and closed, muttering work and home and school tomorrow. She'd nodded and looked down. He pressed a dry kiss to her lips and was gone.

He wasn't mean, he wasn't…anything, really. Just John Bender, in a hurry to get somewhere, like he might be on a normal day.

_Work? Really? It's Sunday,_ she didn't say. _Home? Why? What was the point of getting the room, then?_ She didn't say any of it.

How could she say those things when she'd never had to work a day in her life?

So she didn't say them, and John left, and Claire sat on the mussed sheets, picking tiny pills on the worn bedspread with her still-polished nails.

Sure. OK. There was _before_ that, and _before_ that had been not normal, at all.

Before, it had been…panting, breathless, all but begging, wordless and tongueless and hot in the night between sleep and skin. And before and after, sweet, and sticky, and all that.

Was _that_ enough? Maybe—but—

The thing that was clenching at Claire's gut was, how far was that really going to take them? She'd taken herself as far as she could in that direction, and then some. Sure, maybe she had dark places inside but she had a normal girl streak a mile wide and maybe, it turned out, she didn't want to give it all up for someone who was going to brood and glower and lie to her in the morning.

It all came down to morning, like it had last Monday, and last Monday, there had been that _something, _a glance in the hall, a brush of the hair, but that was before cashmere lessons escalated to closets to motels to…

It all came down to the fact that Claire was still grouchy in the morning like she always was, and her mouth had tasted like stale skin and cotton wool and cigarettes from John's skin and mouth and …there were handcuffs on the bedside table. Handcuffs, and she'd borrowed them from a _mechanic_,and she'd _used_ them, on a boy she'd known a week.

And after all that, her room was still pink, she was still seventeen, and she still needed to have dinner with her parents. On the good china.

How did people _do_ this?

John Bender was throwing darts into the tool wall of Rocket's empty garage. The steel points would lodge in the small peg holes if he won, or bounce off metal if he lost. There was a dartboard on the other side of the garage, but rules, as Bender had always believed, were for pussies.

John had woken up wrong, and feeling very much like he needed to get the hell away from anything to do with pussies before he became one himself. Or assholed his way out of getting anywhere near one again in the near future.

"Bender!" his boss yelled from the back office. "GET OUT! I'm not a goddamn babysitter! We're closed Sundays!"

"_You're_ here." John threw another dart. Bullseye. Peghole. Someone was getting in, anyway.

Rocket continued roaring from the back. "I'm the goddamn boss! I don't have to pay myself overtime! Now get the hell out and go... do homework or hussle pool or get laid. You know, kid stuff." Rocket paused a minute, stroking his belly. "Wait a minute. Did you—where's Claire?"

John growled, throwing another dart, narrowly missing a massive wrench. "Not talking about this," he mumbled.

An enormous, grease-stained hand closed around the remaining darts. "Johnny."

"Don't fucking call me that, and I was a goddamn saint, alright?" John shrugged out of Rocket's grasp, running his hand through his hair. "You have no idea. And Claire's no angel, either." He fixed Rocket with a glare. "As you well know."

Rocket reached out to shove John's shoulder again but stopped when he saw the flinch. "Jesus," he said instead, looking down, then swallowed, switching gears. "You might be right. She's putting up with you, isn't she?"

"Yeah, we'll see how long _that_ lasts." Chocolate-covered cherries. Syrup. Toes. Couldn't last long. It wasn't the way of things. In a world with principals and microphones. Not to mention fathers.

"Every day is a beautiful miracle, John."

That's right. A beautiful miracle, with handcuffs.

But still. That wasn't _all_ there was. "Yeah, a beautiful miracle, now that she and her little friends are done stalking me for the week, getting up in my—Jesus, did you know they fucking _taped_ me—and that _asshole_?"

"So I heard. Why the hell they'd do a thing like that? What a bunch of idiot kids."

John nodded, studying patterns in the grease stains on the floor.

Rocket snorted. Walls shook. It was becoming a rhythm in John's life.

"Those goddamn idiot kids, Bender. Do you know they had to break into the school and crawl around the ceiling to do it? That dweeby guy with the pool physics and your electrician friend, from what I hear. They're fucking nuts." Rocket's eye was on Bender, steady. The tone of his voice is a thousand miles from the words actually coming out of his mouth.

"Yeah, well—yeah. But I—I said stuff, y'know?" John cringed, deep down. He had. Sometimes it just got too much, he let stuff out, and Vernon had drawn it out of him, taunting, loving every minute.

"That Vernon say stuff, too, Bender?"

"Yeah. And that stuff's even worse." John looked around for something to throw but Rocket had taken all the darts. "Why the fuck'd they tape that shit?" Just knowing those words were there, looping around reels in a bag in the back, it messed with him.

Shame was supposed to be _private._

"You tell me, Bender. Why the hell'd they tape it?"

John Bender studied his shoes, silent. Some words, they just didn't come from his mouth.

"Why'd they tape that shit, Bender? Why'd those dumb, freaky kids sneak around taping you and goddamn Dicky Vernon, _whom_ I pantsed as a hobby throughout 9th grade, as it happens—" and then Rocket broke off.

Because as John shifted his head down, a strip of purple showed beneath his collar. Rocket stilled, and the moment was long.

"So, you and Claire," the big man cleared his throat, tried again. "You get up to—anything rough last night?"

"What the fuck would you know about it, Rocket? She get them from _you?_"

Backpedaling. He knew it well. John was a goddamn pro.

Like he left in a hurry this morning. Sure. He did. He _had_ to, before the mad came back too hard. John had to sort things. He kissed her goodbye. He threw nothing, not one thing. It had to be enough. It wasn't. She needed more.

Right. John knew that. Thing was, he didn't have it.

Thing was, he needed more, too, he needed—something. Not from Claire, either. But he hadn't known what. It was a fucking lot to deal with, it just was. But he wasn't walking out on her, no. Just needed a break, needed—something to knock some sense into him, maybe. He was craving clarity, he didn't even smoke up. He did—other stupid shit. He was not going to look at that right now, why he did it, _why._ But that was _his_ business.

"Answer the question, Rocket, she get them from you?"

"Get what?" Rocket reached his hand toward John's collar, but John flinched again. "Easy, John." The big man's hand just hovered in the air between them, palm flat, facing John.

"You stop home this morning, Johnny?"

"Don't _call_ me that!"

"You stop home?"

"What the _fuck_ business is it of yours?"

"Well." Rocket walked over to the tool wall and leaned against the workbench in front of it. His hands gripped the side so hard his knuckles whitened. Then he pushed off, turned, faced John. "Aside from the fact you're crashing at my place. Aside from the fact that you work for me." He took a deep breath, stretched his hands out in front of him while John watched, stone still. "It's a goddamn Sunday, and you came here and showed me bruises that I don't think your girlfriend, whatever you get up to behind closed doors that I know nothing about, could have made."

"I didn't show you a goddamn THING, Rocket." The big wrench made a loud clanging sound as it hit the tool wall, dinged each piece of metal, tapped each makeshift shelf on its way down in a kind of percussion.

They stood and watched it fall.

And then Rocket had John Bender face against the far door, both hands behind his back, head pinned. "I am not hurting you, John, but I will not have you tear apart my shop."

John said nothing.

"I should fire your ass."

"Fine! Do it. I don't care. Let go of me and get the fuck out of my life, Rocket! And stay away from my girlfriend. She wouldn't—not on her own. Stay away. All you fucking people." Tears were in his voice and Bender hated them.

"Nope. And we're just going to stand here until you calm down. If I get out of your life right now, you're gonna ruin the whole goddamn thing today, and maybe take a few others out with you. I don't want to hurt you when you've already got the bruises, but I can't have you taking it out on my shop. I goddamn built this."

And for a while, there was only the sound of two men breathing.

"I had to come here, man. I told—I fucking told her I had work, y'know? It wasn't a goddamn message to _you_. I just—didn't wanna be lying. So I came in. It wasn't a goddamn _invitation_ into my fucking problems, ok?"

"Keep telling yourself that."

"I don't need _help,_ Rocket! You ALL need to butt the FUCK out! Maybe it's my goddamn dad who knows what the hell I need, did you think of that?" John gritted out the words against the greasy door, his head still pinned to the frame with a hairy forearm apparently made of iron.

"Bull fucking shit, Bender. We'll just stay here. I got all day. It's Sunday, and I gave up Mass for Lent."

The phone kept ringing. Claire kept not answering. She lay back on her bed and felt the echoes of hands, everywhere.

Not quite everywhere.

John hadn't even gone between her—where she'd told him not to go. He hadn't, even when she'd had to bite her tongue to keep from begging him to do it. She worried the tongue between her front teeth, now. Sore. She'd bitten hard, her own tongue.

Because of _this_, because she was afraid of _this_. This slightly queasy feeling in her stomach.

Was it really just a week ago that she'd sat in the same room, trying to think of outfits that said she was ready for a change?

Just a week ago when some slightly worn jeans were a sign of rebellion? And only one week later she'd ended up in a cheap motel, decked out in a cashmere bra and a mechanic's handcuffs, eating chocolate off a burnout's chest while giving her first handjob?

Those must have been _some jeans _she'd worn that Monday_._

And John wondered why she hadn't told Bethany about him. Telling about John would mean telling about herself, Claire Standish. Claire, the prom queen? Try Claire, the porn queen.

Claire did her best to squash a wave of panic. How was it _possible_ to be in a world where _Claire Standish_ had done those things?

She picked up the phone, let it rest in her hand—it had stopped ringing, no danger in holding it now. Maybe she _should_ call Bethany, ask her if _this_ was what it felt like when you went too far with a boy, just to keep his attention.

No, that wasn't right.

This is what it felt like when you went too far with a boy, because you'd spent the week going around his back to help him, because you couldn't think what else to do.

You'd done it because helping him had seemed more important than him liking you—until it didn't. And then, suddenly, when it was too late, no matter how much you wanted to help him, his liking you seemed like the most important thing ever, in the history of the universe.

Because maybe you were as selfish as he used to think.

So instead of a handout, which he didn't want, you gave him—stuff. Stuff you read about in Cosmo. _That_ was what this was.

No.

That wasn't quite right, either, even though it was also true.

She hung up the phone on no one.

Everything, everywhere Claire saw was pink. It was like her own color scheme was mocking her, smirking pink girliness at her from her own dumb past. She grabbed the grubby Carebear from under her fluffy princess pillows and hugged it to her chest. Hard.

There was no point in giving yourself a talking to if you weren't going to tell yourself the truth.

Claire lay on the puffy pink cloud of her bed, clutched the Carebear and glared at the phone some more. She felt vaguely hungover, though she hadn't really had much to drink.

A lot of chocolate, though.

Truth. She'd cuffed John Bender and licked chocolate off his chest and put her hands all over him because she, Claire Standish, wanted to.

And then that same John Bender had left that motel room this morning to go back to his life, which _did not match hers at all._ He'd gone back with that steeling-for-trouble look in his eye, to maybe get clocked by his dad, drunk with his boss, pass out God knows where and show up on Monday with a face full of murder, and _would this be her life? _

That had been her, after all, in that room, needing to tissue—_stuff_ off her hands, and her, too, cuddling and happy toes and, yes, _handcuffs__._

But none of that was any guarantee that the person you'd…cuffed…was going to _know_ what you wanted or needed the next day. Not when there was stale pizza boxes on the floor, cherry juice on the sheets and a door off its hinges.

It turned out, saying "please, can we just go have coffee or do something normal, just to prove people can still go to diners after they do things like this?" seemed like the most impossible thing in the world.

The phone started ringing again. Sighing, Claire grabbed it, spoke into it with her brightest, flirtiest, most popular tones.

"It's Allison," answered a flat voice. "So you can drop the perk. I just kind of absorb it, I'm like a black hole of perk."

"Oh, Thank _God,_" sighed Claire, and sighed back into her bed, feet in the air.

"So, I'm calling to check your reality. Hungover?"

"I barely drank."

"And I ask again, hungover? From the-" Claire could hear the gesturing hands and smiled.

"Yeah. _So _hungover." She let her feet fall back to the bed with a thump. "From that. Exactly." Claire felt the sick creeping up her again.

"Invite me for dinner."

"What?"

"Andy says your family hosts a horrifying ritual sacrifice of a lamb or cow parts every week. I want to see if it's really blood ritual, or if they're really just sacrificing you on the altar of their failed marriage."

"Andy said that."

"I'm interpreting. That was the basic idea, though."

"And you want to come to that."

"Yes. Think of it as a bonus prize for befriending the freak."

"Allison!" Claire could feel her throat constricting. Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't bear a world in which people would say things like that, not one more minute.

"Hey," Allison's voice trailed off. "Hey, I was kidding, I know you don't-"

"I can't"—The sobs were welling up. "I can't…_joke_ any more. I can't—what do people _think_ about me, how do I do these things, or not do them…" Claire shoved a pillow in her mouth.

"I'll be right there."


End file.
